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COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS, 
No. XIII. 


REMORSE. 


COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS 


\ 


I. SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY. A Novel. From the 
French of Victor Cherbuliez. i voL, i6mo. Paper cover, 
6o cents; cloth, $i.oo. 

II. GERARD'S MARRIAGE. A Novel. From the French of 
Andre Theuriet. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

III. SPIRITE. A Fantasy. From the French of Theophile Gautier. 

Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

IV. THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT. From the French of 

George Sand. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

V. META HOLDENIS. A Novel. From the French of Victor 
^ Cherbuliez. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

VI. ROMANCES OF THE EAST. From the French of Comte 
DE Gobineau. Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

VII. RENEE AND FRANZ (Le Bleuet). From the French of 
Gustave Haller. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

VIII. MADAME GOSSELIN. From the French of Louis Ulbach. 
Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

IX. THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS. From the French ot 

Andre Theuriet. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

X. A RIA DNE. From the French of Henry Greville. Paper cover, 

. 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

XL SAFAR~HADGI ; or, Russ and Turcoman. From the French of 
Prince Lubomirski. Paper cover, 60 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

XII. IN PARADISE. From the German of Paul Heyse. 2 vols, 
PervoL, paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, |i.oo. 


E E M O E S E 


A NOVEL 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 

TH. BENTZON 

"3\<^nc 


9 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
549 AND 551 BEGAD WAY 
1878 

i 




- COPYEIGHT BY 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1878 . 


REMORSE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

“Yes, indeed, my friend,” said Mme. de Clairac, 
leaning back in her low luxurious chair, which stood 
in the corner of a chimney where sparkled a bright 
fire ; “it is, as you say, an absolute romance — one 
worthy of your pen. Pray wait a few minutes longer.” 

“ Most willingly. I was only fearful of being in 
the way,” answered a masculine voice from out the 
obscurity of the opposite corner. A short winter’s 
day was drawing to a close, and the hour was that 
known as entre chien et loup. “Shall I not be an 
intruder on an interview after so long a separation ? ” 

“ Good heavens ! do you call it a long separation ? 
A separation rather of a lifetime ! If it were a mere 
question of meeting again, there might be some foun- 
dation for your scruples ; but this is quite different. 
My niece and I are to make each other’s acquaintance, 
and the recollections which we share in common are 
so intensely painful that we shall both be thankful 
to you for being here on her arrival. The less feel- 


6 


EEMORSE. 


ing shown by either of us, the better for both ; and 
consequently the presence of a third party will prove 
invaluable.” 

‘‘If this be so, then of course I will remain.” And 
a tall, manly form, at that moment standing on the 
rug in front of the fire, sank again into the luxurious 
depths of the chair from which he had risen. 

“I am ashamed to admit,” continued Mme. de 
Clairac, “ that my fear of a scene was my strongest 
reason for not going to meet our traveler. I had a 
great reluctance to seeing her first at the station, and 
a greater dread of a tUe-d~tete in the coupe. Marthe, 
my daughter, went in my place. Nothing disturbs or 
embarrasses her, as you know, and everything that is 
new absolutely enchants her. But they ought to be 
here by this time. Hark ! Do I not hear a carriage ? ” 
Mme. de Clairac lifted her finger and listened for a 
moment, while her companion went to the window, 
and, raising the lace which covered it, looked out for 
a moment. “Yes, it is a carriage, but not yours, ma- 
dame.” And the gentleman returned to his seat by 
the fire. 

“ That false alarm has so startled me ! ” said Mme. 
de Clairac, in an agitated voice. “ I have become 
sadly nervous as I have grown older. And, after all, 
it is natural that I should feel keenly now, as it is all 
that remains of poor Henri that is coming back to 
me. Ah ! it is marvelous to think how much bitter- 
ness death blots out. I never would have believed 
that I could so entirely forget the sorrows he caused 
us.” 


REMORSE. 7 

“Yes, I remember to have heard you speak of M. 
de Chelles with much severity.” 

“ With too much, alas ! But I was forced to 
dwell on his faults, and to reiterate them obstinately 
to myself, in order to escape the wonderful charm 
which he always exercised over me — over every one, 
indeed, with whom he came in contact. My brother 
had most charming qualities, as I have invariably 
found to be the case with all those incorrigibles who 
disarm you at the same time that they exasperate you 
by the uselessness of all the efforts you make to re- 
claim them. They always have more or less clever- 
ness — a certain amount of frankness, and something 
of the chivalric element. As to courage, they push 
it to a fault — to absolute extravagance. But they 
lack that most precious, most desirable quality of 
common -sense which you utterly ignore in your 
writings, you and all other poets ; and without which 
the finest character, widest intelligence, and best in- 
tentions amount to nothing. You admit this, Mor- 
ton, do you not ? ” 

“ Who would not admit it, dear madame ? Good 
sense is my own pet god, whose modest shrine is 
within the depths of my heart. I do not place him 
on a conspicuous altar, it is true, but he has neverthe- 
less been more useful to me than any other.” 

“You are entirely right, and I think you are tell- 
ing me the truth, for you are a man of experience 
and a practical man, although it suits you to dwell 
upon the exaggerations of passion with such subtle 
and dangerous art. It is said that the actor who has 


8 


REMORSE. 


the faculty of arousing the enthusiasm of the public 
to the highest pitch has himself the most regular and 
calmest of pulses. Is this true ? Can one really keep 
his own head while causing others to lose theirs ? ” 
‘‘lam sure, my dear madame, that you do not ex- 
pect me to answer you ! All women are Delilahs. 
You will profit by my imprudent confidences, I fear, 
and make me regret the hour in which I made them.” 

“ Certainly I will if I can — with those persons who 
are simple enough to see an author in all his heroes. 
An easy enough illusion, possibly, when the author 
has a face like yours. I am old enough to say that to 
you, am I not ? Ah, well ! my poor Henri had noth- 
ing in common with you artists and men of letters. His 
feverish restlessness was his normal condition ; it 
came in paroxysms, you understand. As a child he 
ran away from school, and it was a wonder that he 
did not break his neck in some of his freaks. As a 
young man he allowed himself to be caught in all the 
traps laid for him in society. And heaven knows 
what he did at the club, which, with the Bois, bounded 
his life on the right and the left, with the horizon of 
all the small theatres in front. It was in this narrow 
sphere that my brother made his most perilous voy- 
ages, and over these precipices that he threw the last 
sou of his patrimony. The truth is that he was com- 
pletely his own master at an age when not one youth 
in a hundred would be anything but a simpleton. It 
is a long story and a sad one. He made us all most 
wretched. The thankless role of sermonizer fell nat- 
urally to me. I was the eldest sister. My life was 


REMORSE. 


9 


spent in preaching words of wisdom to him, to which 
he never listened — in interceding with my husband, 
and in gaining strength and courage to support the 
repeated shocks of his thousand and one follies. Final- 
ly his debts drove him from Paris. Then M. de 
Clairac paid them. Ah ! he was the perfection of 
goodness all through this season of trial. But my 
husband made one condition : Henri must carry out 
the threat that he had frequently made of expatriating 
himself. The poor boy had been attracted by the life 
of the New World, by its very dangers; and had my 
father consented to my brother becoming a sailor at 
the age of fifteen, as he desired, we should all of us 
have been spared much sorrow. He left France there- 
fore, and for a long time we heard nothing of him. 

‘‘ Perhaps he did not care to tell us of all the dis- 
appointments of his adventurous life. He went to Cali- 
fornia with the intention of gomg to the gold mines, 
and ended by emptying his pockets into the gaming- 
houses about the mines, as he would have done at 
Homburg or Baden-Baden. The new project of cul- 
tivating wild lands took him to the primeval forests 
of Indiana. Poor Henri ! it was hard for him to use 
those beautiful hands of his in manual labor ; conse- 
quently he kept them in his pocket, having nothing 
else there ! In short, after two years of absolute si- 
lence on his part, of daily expectation on ours, a letter 
came from him — a letter bubbling over with gayety 
and enthusiasm, although he described a life which 
was entirely the reverse. To be so droll over dying 
of hunger, to dance as it were on hot coals — this 


10 


REM0R8E, 


strange state of things could only be explained in one 
way, and I at once recognized the folly of the moment: 
he was in love once more. A horrible thought came 
to me : suppose he should give me some day for a 
sister-in-law some adventuress or some savage ! I 
went too far in my presentiments, and yet the next 
packet brought us the news of his approaching mar- 
riage. ‘ Good ! ’ cried my husband, as his eyes caught 
the name of the fiancee ; ‘ if he marries an heiress, that 
will put his affairs all right again ! ’ Dona Manuela 
de Morales belonged in truth to a rich and noble 
family established in Mexico ; but my brother, unable 
to obtain the consent of her parents, ran off with her 
as Almaviva did with Rosina, so that he married a dis- 
inherited girl. Before he reached a safe haven, there- 
fore, you see he had shipwrecked an innocent creature, 
with whom, to do him justice, we must admit that he 
was madly in love — for Henri never loved in any 
other way. 

“ The fugitive couple reached the United States, 
and there Henri, who understood English as well as 
he did his native language, found some employment 
on a newspaper. Have I told you that he was pos- 
sessed of every talent, without the power of using 
any one ? When his daughter was bom, I received 
another letter quite as crazy as the former, to which 
I made no reply, as I totally disapproved of every- 
thing connected with this unfortunate marriage. 
Wounded doubtless by my silence, he now followed 
my example, and we heard nothing of or from him un- 
til the day when, the civil war breaking out in Ameri- 


REMORSE. 


11 


ca, I was informed that his fiery nature had embarked 
in it. I knew of course that it must be so, for he 
was of the Raousset-Boulbon race. My poor brother 
was killed at Bull Run. His bones lie in a battle- 
field in a foreign land.” 

A half-sob choked the calm voice of Mme. de 
Clairac ; she ceased to speak. A servant entered 
Avith two lamps, which he placed on a console table. 
The salon was thus suddenly illuminated. It was a 
large room of stately elegance. Screens covered with 
silk, the color of the window-hangings, were ingenious- 
ly disposed so as to form cozy corners. Hear the fire- 
place Mme. de Clairac had thus arranged for herself 
a small and characteristic retreat ; a rosewood book- 
case held, within reach of her hand, her favorite vol- 
umes, uniformly bound in russia leather; fiowers with- 
out perfume, camellias and evergreens, were massed 
in the comers; on the low English table were arranged, 
in studied disorder, albums and honbonnihreSj the last 
new book, a miniature of M. de Clairac, photographs 
of children, and those trifies which certain conversa- 
tionalists like to finger as they talk. Mme. de Clairac, 
a proficient in the almost lost art of conversation, at- 
tached great importance to it. Even the chairs were 
grouped with a meaning ; they were comfortable and 
inviting, and extended their arms in a hospitable sort 
of way. A portrait by the hand of a master orna- 
mented the principal panel. This portrait represented 
a fair, delicate woman, with a profile that was regu- 
lar almost to angularity, and supporting her chin on 
her hand. The eyes had a thoughtful expression ; 


12 


REMORSE. 


the smile was that of a person who knows how to lis- 
ten, and whose attentive silence is to be taken as an 
encouragement. A look of haughty distinction in the 
face recalled that of the lady who sat in the corner of 
the fireside below, although the latter was much older. 
There was really, however, little change in Mme. de 
Clairac since her thirtieth year, save that her blonde 
hair had whitened. She had never been beautiful. 
No passions, neither joys nor griefs, except those to 
which she had just alluded in a moment of expansion 
which in her was peculiarly rare, had ever quickened 
the beating of her heart ; and with her the heart was 
always held subordinate to the head. Out of health, 
and consequently sedentary in her habits, she had 
quite early in life relinquished all outside amusements, 
and devoted herself to the formation of a salon. 
Mme. Recamier, Mme. de Ouras, Mme. de Broglie, 
Mme. de Boigne, Mme. Swetchine, were her models, 
the saints of her calendar. All the savoir-faire of 
which she was capable she employed in attracting 
around her arm-chair, and in retaining and uniting 
there, distinguished men whose ideas and convictions 
she imbibed in a way that made them believe that 
they came to her for light ; while the truth was that, 
far from being their Egeria, she was their reflec- 
tion only — possessing, in fact, only the innate science 
of flattery and respect for liberty of opinion in others. 
Was there anything more needful to make the repu- 
tation of a superior woman, and of the mistress of a 
cultivated home ? 

While the servant drew the heavy curtains over 


REMORSE. 


13 


the windows, a profound silence ensued between Mme. 
de Clairac and her visitor, who appeared to wait in 
patience either for the end of her unfinished recital 
or for permission to depart. The visitor in question 
was between thirty and thirty-five. His face, keen, 
quick, and clever, was that of an artist ; but his cos- 
tume and manners were those of a man of the world. 
The fine irony of his smile, always a little skeptical ; 
the expression of his large, clear eyes, disdainfully in- 
different or tranquilly observing, clouded at times as 
suddenly as a storm darkens the surface of a sunny 
lake ; the broad brow, marked by a deep line of 
thought between the eyes — all these attracted the at- 
tention of the observer at first from the regularity of 
the features, that were already somewhat worn by the 
turmoil and anxieties of life. 

It was, nevertheless, the life of a privileged indi- 
vidual ; it had had its tempests, its disappointments, 
and its shocks, but a great sorrow had never yet found 
its place there. Maurice Morton, romancer and poet, 
had reached celebrity early in life, without having 
been compelled to submit to the trials which generally 
precede success ; his first book had been read, his first 
play applauded, in the highest literary and theatrical 
circles. Possessing a modest fortune inherited from 
his father, which was quite sufficient for his needs, he 
worked only for fame, and worked at his leisure. He 
had the advantage over the greater part of his con- 
temporaries, that his works were true social pictures 
of a true world, which Maurice Morton thoroughly 
understood, as he was in it as well as of it — which 


14 


REMORSE. 


fact by no means, however, prevented him from 
knowing something, too, of bad society. Everything 
succeeded with him. When the cup of his inspiration 
was full, he allowed it to bubble over into an exquisite 
romance, or a charming comedy, which was announced 
and feted in advance. After this was all over, he 
resumed his daily habits of life in the best social cir- 
cles of Paris, where he exerted his wit and cleverness 
for the pleasure of others — at the same time taking 
quiet observations and notes for future use from these 
‘‘studies from life.” His reputation of a man d 
bonnes fortunes did not injure him with women, he 
bore it with such entire simplicity, and with a discre- 
tion which would-be Don J uans would have done well 
to imitate. He was kindly-hearted but selfish, as was 
quite natural, since he had never been compelled in 
any way to think of any one but himself, and having 
been always enabled to follow the dictates of his own 
taste in regard to the habits of his daily life. While 
she recognized the existence of this solitary fault, 
and excused it to herself and others, the Baroness 
de Clairac had a high esteem for Maurice Morton, 
first, because he was one of the most brilliant lumina- 
ries of her salon ^ and secondly, in consequence of 
certain circumstances which later on we shall find 
occasion to recount, wherein she had put his loyalty 
to the test. 

“ Is it possible ? ” she exclaimed, looking up at a 
clock which marked half -past five. “Can it be so 
late ? And why do they not come ? ” 

“ They will not come,” answered Morton, kindly. 


REMORSE. 


15 


‘‘until you have finished the history you began. I 
know no one who talks so well as you.” 

“There is little to add,” resumed the baroness, 
“ only to tell you how I found the orphan. Left a 
widow, my unknown sister-in-law wrote me a letter, 
which Spanish idioms could not prevent from being 
most touching. She spoke with exultation of the 
glorious termination of her husband’s life ; she called 
him perfect, and added that it was only the certainty 
of soon joining him which made her sorrow in any 
way endurable. Her only anxiety was now lest her 
beloved child — her only child — should be left alone 
and deserted when she was called away. She relied 
on me, she said, to care for and watch over Henri’s 
child. What shall I say to you? The poor thing 
seemed to me a little mad. I answered her as affec- 
tionately as I could, but I made no promises. This 
reserve was interpreted as a consent, for last month 
I received a second letter from Havana.” Mme. de 
Clairac drew a letter from one of the pretty boxes scat- 
tered on the table by her side. The letter had a black 
border, and she extended it to Morton. He read it 
aloud : 

“ Madame and dear Aunt : It is two years to- 
day since the death of my beloved father ; and now it 
is my mother who has gone. I ought not to weep ; 
she could not long survive him. She is happy now 
after long sufferings, for which there was no hope of 
relief in this world. I repeat this over and over again 
to myself, that I may not utterly succumb under the 


16 


REMORSE. 


weight of despair and loneliness which presses so heav- 
ily upon me. I say to myself, also, that I have noth- 
ing to do now save to obey without delay the wish so 
many times expressed by my father, and the definite 
order of my dying mother : it was to find you at once, 
dear aunt, who alone represent my family, and to 
repair to France — the France that I call my country 
and my home, although I have learned to love it in 
exile. This letter will precede me by about three 
weeks, the distance between one steamer and another. 
Until then, I am determined not to think of the future. 
It is you, dear aunt, who will dispose of me as you 
will. Your respectful niece, 

“ Mai^uela de Chelles.” 

Having read this letter, Maurice Morton turned 
and twisted it for a few minutes in his fingers, while 
Mme. de Clairac watched his expression. ‘‘ Poor 
child ! ” he said at last in a low voice, without lifting 
his eyes ; for he feared lest the baroness, with her 
habitual perspicacity, would discover that he was think- 
ing at that very moment that she was not precisely 
the woman in whose arms one could thus throw one’s 
self with entire confidence. 

ThQ porte-cocMre opened with a clash. 

‘‘ This time I am not mistaken ! ” cried Mme. de 
Clairac. 

The bell rang ; and in a moment the anteroom was 
filled with the froufrous of silks and with the voice of 
a woman, gay, shrill, and laughing, but not unmusical 
— the voice, in short, of a true Parisian. 


REMORSE. 


17 


“Yes, it is Marthe ! ” said the baroness, “and as 
much like a whirlwind as usual ! ” 

Two young women entered, one leading the other 
by the hand. One of them, small and slender, dressed 
in the extreme or rather in advance of the fashion, was 
Mme. Halbronn, the youngest daughter of Mme. de 
Clairac. The other, dressed in deep mourning, was 
striking from the oddity of her style and the wonder- 
ful grace of her movements. Of middle height, she 
appeared much taller than she really was, probably 
because of the marvelous harmony of her form, which 
called to mind some antique statue draped in bomba- 
zine and crape. More beautiful faces were to be seen 
without doubt, but none which was more striking ; it 
was the very embodiment of youth, strength, and life 
in their most superb development. The large black 
eyes, fringed with long lashes, which seemed to cast a 
shadow on the pale rounded cheeks, had all the soft- 
ness of velvet. The features were by no means abso- 
lutely regular. The outline of the lips, scarlet like the 
blossom of a pomegranate, had no suggestion of the 
classic, but it seemed as if each fault in this charming 
face added to its attraction. The heavy masses of 
hair, held up only by a traveling coiffure, half mantilla 
and half hood, had apparently escaped from their 
fastenings and, falling around her brow and throat, 
formed a dark halo about that head which was at once 
child-like and womanly. 

Maurice Morton was struck as by some wonderful 
work of art, while Mme. de Clairac was absolutely 
disconcerted. The girl advanced with evident timid- 


18 


REMORSE. 


ity, and was apparently dazzled by the sudden light 
of the room. Mme. Halbronn said to her mother, 
who had stepped forward : “ This is our beautiful 
cousin ! ” 

Manuela half bent toward the baroness, ready either 
to fall upon her knees to receive a blessing, or to throw 
herself into the arms opened to receive her. This 
movement was evidently unstudied and exquisitely 
graceful. Morton felt his heart, blas^ as it was, moved 
to its innermost depths ; he considered Mme. de Clai- 
rac’s reception of her niece cold and restrained. She 
simply extended her hand. “ Come here,” she said ; 
‘‘ let me see you ! ” And she drew her to a lamp ^nd 
examined her with more curiosity and surprise than ten- 
derness. “ Why had the train been so late ? Was she 
not very tired ? With whom had she come to Paris ? 
Perhaps she would rather go at once to her room ; 
dinner was at seven.” 

Mile, de Chelles answered in a singularly melodious 
voice, whose peculiar quality amounted almost to a for- 
eign accent, although she spoke the purest of French. 
She said that their voyage had been singularly smooth, 
the weather delightful ; that her friends from Ha- 
vana — and, as she uttered their names, her velvety 
eyes swam in tears, for it was under their roof that 
her mother died — that her friends from Havana had 
placed her under the charge of a family going to 
Paris. “ And I am not the least fatigued,” she added, 
with a smile which dried her tears before they had 
time to fall ; ‘‘ and I feel only the happiness of seeing 
you, whom my father loved so dearly, and France.” 


REMORSK 


19 


She did not finish her sentence, hut kissed the hand 
of the baroness, who by this time had decided to em- 
brace her. 

‘‘ Let me see,” added Mme. de Clairac, looking at 
the girl more attentively. “ No, you do not look in 
the least like your father ; I do not see one of his feat- 
ures. All Morales, probably. A true Spaniard, Mor- 
ton, is she not ? ” 

“ We cannot admit that, madame. France claims 
Mile, de Chelles as a child who will do her much 
honor ! ” 

The poor child, to whom her family had just re- 
fused the two privileges which she most earnestly 
desired, those of a Frenchwoman and a De Chelles, 
turned a look of gratitude upon the stranger who thus 
encouraged her, and of whose presence she, in her agi- 
tation, had been vaguely conscious. She read on this 
unknown countenance, not the admiration which any 
pretty woman is sure of inspiring in the opposite sex, 
and which is a homage acceptable only to coquettes, 
but a sympathy and profound interest that she had 
failed to find in the reception of both cousin and aunt. 

“ Monsieur Maurice Morton,” said Mme. de Clairac, 
presenting him — the author of — ” and she named sev- 
eral of Morton’s novels, which, according to her, would 
certainly go down to posterity. 

The young girl bowed her head quickly, and, in a 
tone which made her blush to the very roots of the 
hair, “ Morton, the author ! ” she cried — and then 
quickly added — “pardon me, sir, but I know your 
books so well.” 


20 


REMORSE. 


“Kot all, I trust,” said Mme. de Clairac, with a 
slight laugh, and with a glance of intelligence directed 
to her daughter, who exclaimed : “ Look at that, Mor- 
ton. If I had opened one of your terrible novels be- 
fore my marriage, what would they all have said? 
But I have made amends since then, I would have you 
to understand.” 

“ I thought,” said Maurice Morton, smiling in his 
turn, “ that our light literature had a very bad reputa- 
tion in America.” 

“Yes,” answered Manuela, her color deepening as 
she spoke ; “ yes, but — ” She hesitated ; she dared 
not add that, left to herself, she had read without per- 
mission many books which maternal vigilance and 
prudence would have withheld from almost any other 
young girl. The fear that they would regard her as 
badly brought up increased her confusion, which at 
last appeared so painful that Morton hastened to add : 
“ To cross the ocean and fall under such eyes is far 
beyond the merits of my poor works. Had I the 
power, I would efface much that is in them, or, rather, 
I would prefer to write something more worthy of 
such a reader.” 

“You have been told, probably, that the French 
are a polite nation, my dear cousin,” interrupted Mme. 
Halbronn, with a gay laugh. 

“ I believe them to be very kind and considerate,” 
said Mile, de Chelles, “ and that is much better ! ” So 
saying, with a slight bow to Maurice Morton, she 
turned to leave the room, but lingered to receive a 
welcome from Mme. de Brives, the elder of her cous- 


REMORSE. 


21 


ins, who entered, full of excuses for her delay — Pau- 
line’s walk, George’s music-lesson, Behe’s gymnastics, 
all combined to prevent her. Mme. de Brives was 
one of those young mothers, common enough in our 
day, who have no other subject of conversation than 
the studies, the progress, and the clever sayings of 
their children. In fact, she was absorbed in them, as 
her sister was in her love of dress, and much in the 
same way. 

‘‘ It is I,” she exclaimed, ‘‘ who will show my cous- 
in to her room. I have only fifteen minutes to devote 
to her. My children are going to-night to the fancy- 
dress ball given by the Princess M .” 

She lighted a candle, and, preceding Manuela, she 
went the whole length of a corridor, describing, as she 
went, Pauline’s costume. 

“Well ! ” said Mme. Halbronn, with her petulant, 
aggressive little manner, planting 'herself in front of 
Maurice, “ what do you think of her ? ” 

“ That is precisely the same question your mother 
has just asked, and I will answer you in the same 
words I used to her : Beautiful ! — too beautiful ! ” 

“ Too beautiful is precisely the right phrase ! ” 
cried Marthe, twirling before a mirror with a most 
skillful hand the little curls falling low on her fore- 
head until they met her eyebrows, which were painted 
like those of a sultana. “ These foreign beauties have 
something exaggerated and startling about them, like 
those superb fabrics which are unquestionably mag- 
nificent, but which are so fierce in their contrasts, so 
loud in their combinations of color, that they are sim- 


22 


REMORSE, 


ply appalling. Am I not right ? They lack tone — » 
help me, please, to the word I want.” Maurice not 
seeming to approve of what she said, she added : “ In 
short, the effect is too theatrical ; hut, on the stage, 
she would be superb ! ” 

“ I am entirely of your opinion on that last point ! 
And what a voice and intonation ! How rare are such 
gifts in these days, when everybody either gabbles or 
chews over their words ! ” 

The pretty Mme. Halbronn, who generally talked 
slowly, shrugged her shoulders and turned her back on 
him as if he had been guilty of an impertinence — for 
it is, in fact, the height of impertinence in a man to 
praise one woman before another. Morton was well 
aware of this, but was guilty on this occasion of a mo- 
mentary forgetfulness. 

“ She is not in the least like her father,” repeated 
Mme. de Clairac, thoughtfully, and with some discon- 
tent. “ Her mother, the Mexican, was probably like 
this girl. I would prefer that she should recall her 
father. But, after all, it is not her fault. Morton is 
right ; she is far too beautiful for a poor girl.” 

Maurice Morton looked at her earnestly. He pen- 
etrated her thoughts. “ Ah ! ” he said to himself, as 
he took his leave, “ you have a most interesting person 
under your roof, to be sure ; but you will find her a 
somewhat embarrassing one.” 


REMORSE. 


23 


CHAPTER II. 

Manuela, carried away by Mme. de Brives, had 
heard nothing of all this ; but the cloud that over- 
spread her face and saddened it so intensely as she 
left the salon suggested the possibility of her having 
divined it. 

The conversation continued between Mme. Hal- 
bronn and her mother. 

“ Do you think that mass of hair is all her own ? ” 
asked the daughter, in a tone that betrayed envy. 
And Mme. de Clairac, as if she wished to reassure 
her, answered in an evasive fashion : “ She would cer- 
tainly make a sensation in the world ; but her situa- 
tion of course forbids her going into society.” 

“ What will you do with her, mamma ? ” resumed 
Mme. Halbronn. 

“We must see first of what she is capable,” an- 
swered the baroness, in evident perplexity. 

By this time Mme. de Brives had installed Ma- 
nuela in the room she was to occupy — a small room, 
dreary enough, and very simply furnished. The 
chairs were covered with embroidery, whose designs 
seemed intended to use up odds and ends of wool. 
There was also a superfluity of all the uglinesses ever 
concocted with the aid of a crochet needle — cushions, 
wall-pockets, and the like. 

“ How easily one recognizes the home of an old 
maid ! ” said Mme. de Brives, with a laugh. “ This 


24 


REMORSE, 


is the room once occupied by our governess, Mile. 
Foucher, and nothing has been changed in it since 
her death. Poor Foucher ! She was certainly the 
most tiresome person in the world ! We were given 
over to her absolutely. And mamma, who accuses 
my sister and myself of caring nothing for books, 
did not think of directing Foucher to drill that into 
us ! As for myself, however, I look upon no educa- 
tion as worthy of the name except that given by a 
mother to her children. My mother was to us a 
distant divinity. I, on the contrary, am a friend to 
my little Pauline ; she is always with me. M. de 
Brives insists that, when children are permitted in the 
drawing-room, they hear much which was not in- 
tended for their ears. This is quite possible : one 
cannot correct one’s conversation, or keep it perpetu- 
ally under restraint, on account of young people about 
one ; but I assure you that well-brought-up children 
will only listen to what they have a right to hear and 
understand. Pauline, for example, is only eight, but 
she has the manners of a girl of sixteen. I will pre- 
sent her to you to-morrow, and her brothers also. 
My sons are extraordinarily precocious. George, 
when he is not at the head of his class, is in a per- 
fect fever of despair. Emulation gives a most ex- 
traordinary impetus. But pray forgive me. I al- 
ways forget that we are never interested in children 
till we have them of our own ; and you are little 
more than a child yourself, little one. Au revoir. 
You will excuse me for hm’rying away. I will send 
Justine.” 


REMORSE. 


25 


Mme. de Brives went away, leaving poor Manuela 
absolutely stunned and bewildered by her volubility. 
When she was alone the young girl glanced around 
and gave a slight shiver. Not one of the inanimate 
objects on which her eyes rested had that look which 
is imparted by affectionate solicitude presiding over 
their arrangement. She had never been accustomed 
to luxury ; the wandering life she had led with her 
parents was almost incompatible with comfort. She 
was born and had lived to womanhood in a home that 
was rolled from place to place, as the mood seized her 
father. Her mother, however, had always found some 
way of embellishing their precarious existence by a 
gleam of sunshine and the exercise of a little inge- " 
nuity. Here, on the contrary, all was thoroughly 
commonplace, cold, and repelling ; while the spectre 
of the old maid had haunted her ever since Mme. de 
Brives had described her. To grow old and to die in 
this room and in these surroundings must have been 
sad enough ! Lighting two candles, in order to exam- 
ine two or three water-colors, a picture or two embroi- 
dered in beads, and a dusty collection of butterflies 
under glass, Manuela Anally, with a sigh, took from 
her bosom two small miniatures, those of her father 
and her mother, which she placed on the mantel. A 
femme de chambre came to offer her services. Open- 
ing the solitary trunk, she took out another black 
dress, differing only from the one Manuela wore in its 
superior freshness ; its rigid simplicity caused the 
souhrette to draw do^vn the corners of her mouth in a 
most signiflcant manner, for she had never before be- 
2 


26 


REMORSE. 


held any costume so totally out of fashion ! And 
yet,” said Mile. Justine to herself, as she retired from 
the apartment after having placed the young lady’s 
slender wardrobe in the drawers, “ she would have a 
beautiful figure if she were well dressed, but she 
comes from a country of savages ; and then, too, she 
is poor ! ” 

While Justine drew these deductions from the 
state of Manuela’s poor little wardrobe, the young girl 
herself sat with her eyes fixed on the tiny flame in the 
fireplace, thinking of a very different matter from the 
penury which excited so much compassion in the Pari- 
sian souhrette. All her past life — short, to be sure, 
but full of eventful changes — ^passed before her eyes 
now, at this moment when a new chapter of experi- 
ences was about to unfold before her. She saw her- 
self again following her father to 'New York, thence 
to New Orleans, from there to San Francisco. Again 
she found herself seeking to become accustomed to 
new habits and ways of life. The wood in the chim- 
ney crumbled to ashes, and the picture she had drawn 
in the bright coals faded away. She was transported 
to Havana, to that creole home, where Mme. de Chelles, 
rejected by her own family, even after the cruel fatal- 
ity by which she was widowed, had taken refuge under 
the roof of an old friend, only to die there. And now 
in its turn came her voyage, each detail of which 
passed before her with marvelous precision and fidel- 
ity. Again, she lived over the wearisome monotony of 
those days, each one so like all the others. The great 
transatlantic ship was a world in itself, where curios- 


REMORSE. 


27 


ity and gossip were much the same as on shore. She 
had excited considerable comment, and had been sur- 
rounded by attentions, and even by marked devo- 
tion. The Havana lady, who had been her chaperon, 
“ a frisky matron,” had assailed her with many jests 
on the subject. “ You leave a path of flame behind 
you,” she said ; “ you have destroyed the peace of 
mind of a Russian officer and an English consul ; in 
fact, all the men on board are your victims ! ” 

Manuela had even pushed her conquests to those 
regions where they ceased to be flattering. One morn- 
ing when, with her companion, she was walking on 
deck, taking the exercise which was their only recre- 
ation, she became suddenly conscious of the intense 
gaze of one of the steerage passengers. These pas- 
sengers were a rough class of men — disappointed 
seekers for gold, returning emigrants, poor fellows 
of all kinds. The man whose eyes were fixed upon 
her wore the dress of a laboring man. The following 
day the same thing occurred ; and, finally, the Hava- 
nese lady noticed the man and his manners, and re- 
marked upon them. One day, when Manuela lifted 
her skirts with her hands to pass over a pile of ropes 
and between the chicken-coops, her chaperon ex- 
claimed : 

“ Look there ! See how that fellow watches you ! 
He looks at your feet just as if he would devour them ! 
He must be a Frenchman, for only a Frenchman would 
take such liberties.” 

The young girl hastily dropped the folds of her 
clinging skirts. 


28 


REMORSE. 


The voyage was drawing to a close, and Manuela 
was on deck probably for her last morning walk. 
Suddenly she discovered that she had lost one of her 
gloves, and turned back to pick it up : it was not to 
be found, but at the same moment her strange ad- 
mirer, who as usual was leaning against the mast, 
seemed to be hastily concealing some small object in 
his vest. Manuela went directly toward him. 

“ My glove ! ” she said. “ Give it to me,” she 
added, in an imperious tone ; “ give me my glove ! ” 

He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a slight 
shrug of his shoulders, handed her the little gant de 
SuMe, accompanied by a look which offended both 
the pride and the modesty of Mile, de Chelles. Why 
did the remembrance of that insignificent episode re- 
turn to her to-day? It was because Justine, having 
found in the bottom of the trunk the unlucky glove 
itself, had laid it with some other trifles on the table 
at her side. Manuela picked it up with the tips of 
her Angers, and tossed it into the fire. 

A servant came to tell her that dinner was on the 
table. As the moment arrived for her reappearance 
before her aunt, the young girl felt a strange shrink- 
ing and repugnance. “What will she be to me? 
Shall I be able to love her as I ought ? ” Manuela’s 
nature was by no means suspicious ; up to that time 
she had never experienced anything but kindness ; 
but she knew very well, although she had never met 
them as yet, that there were hard hearts and unkindly 
natures in the world. Her mother’s brothers, for ex- 
ample — had they not shown themselves strangely piti- 


REMORSE, 


29 


less ? Slie sought courage from a loving look at the 
^ two miniatures on the mantel, and fancied that they 
each said to her, ‘‘ Courage, love — courage ! ” 

Five minutes more and Manuela entered the dining- 
room brilliantly lighted and paneled in oak, where 
the antique buffets glittered with old silver and rare 
faiences. There was no stranger there — only Mme. 
de Clairac, her daughter Marthe, and her son-in-law 
M. Halbronn, a good-looking young banker, with such 
bad manners that he had neither eyes nor ears for 
aught save the beautiful cousin. Toward the termi- 
nation of the repast, when the servants were out of 
hearing, Mme. Halbronn said : 

‘‘Do you sing, my dear? With a rich voice like 
yours, it is impossible that you should not. Do not 
deny it ; it is a contralto. I have only a poor little 
soprano, as sharp as possible, but I believe it is not 
regarded as altogether disagreeable. We will sing 
together ; that will be delightful.” 

“ I have never learned to sing,” answered Manuela, 
somewhat confused. 

“ What ! Are you not a musician ? ” 

“ I am passionately fond of music, but I have no 
talent.” 

“ Hone whatever ? ” 

“ Ho, none at all ! You would soon discover that 
I am a great ignoramus, but I prefer to tell you so 
myself in advance.” 

“Are you in earnest? Have you never studied 
anything — nothing at all ? ” 

“ My poor mother had been but indifferently edu- 


30 


REMORSE. 


cated herself. My father had no time to give me 
lessons. Besides, we were always traveling.” 

But you know how to read, at least,” interrupted 
Mme. Halhronn, with a hearty laugh, “because you 
have read Morton’s novels ! ” 

“ I can also write after a fashion English, French, 
and Spanish,” replied Manuela, good-naturedly. 

“ Ah ! And now, without any equivocation, will 
you tell us where you came across the hooks of our 
illustrious friend ? ” 

“ On my voyage. I read a great deal — ” 

“ Delightful ! And then on landing almost the 
first person you met was the author of the works 
which had been your companion for so long a time. 
Why, it is an absolute romance — is it not, Victor ? ” 
“It is very dangerous,” answered M. Halhronn, 
surveying Manuela with hold and scrutinizing look 
through his eye-glass. “ Take my advice, fair cousin, 
and place not your faith in poets. Their fine senti- 
ments, like their fine verses, are a merchandise of 
precious little value. They are always on the look- 
out for studies — motifs — you understand ; and I give 
you fair warning.” 

“ But why warn me ? What is it to me ? ” an- 
swered Manuela, with proud tranquillity. 

“ Precisely ! ” said Mme. de Clairac. “ She is the 
public, and she appreciates Maurice Morton’s writings; 
and that is surely no crime ! Only, ma belle, you must 
not acknowledge that you have swallowed those poi- 
sons, which were never intended for girls of your age. 
In future we wiU watch over your reading. A young 


REMORSE. 


31 


girPs life in France differs entirely from what it is in 
America. I hope you will remember that.” 

“ I will remember, dear aunt, always to follow your 
instructions and obey your wishes,” answered Manuela, 
sweetly. 

That evening, as usual, several grave, bald-headed 
men made an appearance, longer or shorter, in the sa- 
lon of Mine, de Clairac. Their hostess gave to each 
an opportunity of shining in his own special domain — 
metaphysics, philology, history, or literature — without 
permitting any one to usurp the conversation and be- 
come tedious. She had the peculiar faculty of giving 
to a monologue a right-about face movement, and of 
making conversation general ; and all this she did 
almost imperceptibly, without rudeness or apparent 
effort, without ever taking fire herself, or arguing for 
or against any point. Even politics elicited from her 
no decided expression of opinion. Her attitude was 
always conciliatory. Among her guests of that even- 
ing were a septuagenarian academician and a young 
philosopher ; with the works of both the baroness 
showed such familiarity that they really supposed her 
to have read them. The fact was that she had at 
least twenty different opinions upon those huge vol- 
umes so carefully cut and displayed ; and these twen- 
ty opinions were those of as many of her friends. 

M. Halbronn had assumed the position of a con- 
quering hero in front of the fire — a position which 
was common to him in the boudoirs, which, married 
as he was, he had not ceased to frequent, and whence 
he brought home to his wife many a bit of scandalous 


32 


REMORSE. 


gossip which delighted her heart. M. Halbronn had 
a certain part to play in the house of his mother-in-law 
— that of interpreter, and he had his share in all the 
conversations, jumping from one to another like a 
squirrel. He rarely finished a sentence or a phrase, 
hut he began them with perfect coolness, and others 
picked up his fragments and built on them ; he was 
consequently of great use in Mme. de Clairac’s salon, 
Mme. Halbronn, curled in a deep chair, smoked a 
cigarette in silent protest against a circle differing so 
entirely from her own, which was composed exclusive- 
ly of women of fashion and sportsmen, of men who 
were in training for a boat-race, of idlers and would-be 
litterateurs. Nevertheless, the old academician, with 
his wig over one ear, fluttered heavily about her. Sur- 
feited at the close of life with its serious, solid side, he 
liked those little women who pretend to have nothing 
but chiffons and champagne in their heads. 

Manuela, seated in a deep window, found herself 
isolated. Her aunt totally ignored her presence. To 
those few persons who had remarked her as they entered 
the room — and it was difficult not to notice her, on ac- 
count of her exquisite beauty — the baroness had said : 
‘^Mlle. de Chelles, my niece,” in a tone which clearly 
signified, “We will say no more about her ! ” Others, 
more familiar with the ways of the house, and knowing 
that Mme. Clairac held that under her roof she was the 
solitary or primary object, paid no apparent attention 
to the new-comer, and did not ask to be presented. 
Manuela was therefore a person totally without im- 
portance ; to this evident fact she made no objection. 


REMORSE. 


33 


The topics of conversation were almost unintelligible 
to her, and she felt bewildered by this capricious Paris- 
ian chit-chat, which in one breath dealt with the most 
lofty subjects, and in the next eagerly discussed the 
gossip of the hour. The flight of a bee would have 
seemed to her more methodical. She felt very dull 
and stupid, and was ashamed of herself. Neverthe- 
less, the poor child listened intently. “ Some day,” 
she said to herself, “I shall have the key to all this.” 
At last a few words struck her ear and aroused her in- 
terest. They were discussing an approaching mar- 
riage, which was evidently regarded by the greater 
part of those persons who were present as a most un- 
expected stroke of good fortune for the lady. 

“ But why do you think her so fortunate ? ” asked 
Manuela, timidly, of her cousin Marthe. ‘‘ My aunt 
has just said that the prospective bridegroom is old 
and ugly.” 

“ Have you not heard ? He is a millionaire, and 
she has not a penny ! In this part of the world girls 
without a dowry rarely And husbands.” As soon as 
these heedless words had escaped the lips of Mme. 
Halbronn, she probably regretted them, for she hastily 
added : ‘‘ Of course, there are exceptions — ” 

“ But I am not sure,” replied Manuela, “ that this 
young girl is so happy. Hid you say that he asked 
her hand without knowing her, and after he had seen 
her but once ? ” 

“Well! he liked her appearance, and he knew 
her to be of good family. What more did he wish to 
know ! Ah ! I understand,” exclaimed Marthe, laugh- 


34 


REMORSE. 


ing. “ You cannot conceive of a marriage without 
a preliminary flirtation. Reassure yourself, my child. 
The devil has his own, and the flirtation comes later ; 
that is all the difference ! ” 

Come ! come ! Marthe,” interrupted her hus- 
band ; ‘‘ do not pervert your cousin’s innocent mind. 
Tell me, however, Manuela, if all I hear is true about 
your long engagements in America, and of the liberty 
of choice allowed there to young ladies. Be frank 
with us — enlighten us. Travelers pretend that your 
days are passed there in riding and driving, in picnics, 
in boating or skating parties, over which no parents’ 
eyes mount guard. Are these young ladies, so poorly 
protected, worth more or less than ours on this side of 
the water ? A Frenchman would never marry under 
such circumstances ; the embarrassment of choosing 
from the charming girls of the whole United States 
would be too much for him ! ” And M. Halbronn 
smiled conceitedly as he pulled his moustache. 

‘‘ I have lived but a short time among them,” an- 
swered Manuela, much scandalized, “ and I am not 
able to say how much or how little advantage they 
take of their independence ; but in every country I 
imagine there is one condition which is essential to a 
happy marriage.” 

“ And what may that be ? ” interrupted both Mme. 
and M. Halbroun, with a glance at each other. 

“ That the two must love each other,” answered 
Manuela, lifting her frank, innocent eyes to his. 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried M. Halbronn. ‘‘ Marthe 
and I only saw each other flve or six times before we 


REMORSE. 


35 


were married ; and we love each other enough, do we 
not, Marthe ? ” 

“ Quite enough ! ” replied his wife, with a smile. 

Without understanding precisely why, Manuela 
felt shocked and indignant. 

“ What are you saying to that poor child ? ” asked 
Mme. de Clairac, from her distant chair. “ She looks 
absolutely frightened.” 

“ I am only very weary, dear aunt,” answered 
Manuela, seeking an excuse to retire. 

She was immediately permitted to go to her room. 
When she had closed her door and bolted it, every 
new face which she had seen that day slowly passed 
before her imagination. Her thoughts lingered on 
but one with any pleasure, and that was Maurice 
Morton’s. He stood upon a pedestal won by his 
talents — talents of which she could judge without any 
personal acquaintance. For this reason, and possibly 
for some others, he had impressed and charmed her. 
“ With the exception of my father,” she said to her- 
self, “ I have never seen a man whom I thought so 
agreeable. Will he come here often ? ” This last 
question she had no way of answering ; and, as she 
asked it, she laid her head on the pillow which had so 
long aided the dreamless sleep of Mile. Foucher. The 
girl’s eyes closed, and in a few moments more she was 
sailing with Maurice Morton on one of those deep- 
blue American lakes which M. Halbronn had indicated 
as the scenes of outrageous flirtations. Her hands 
were full of flowers, and, seated at her side, Maurice 
was speaking. He uttered tender, delicate words, per- 


36 


REMORSE. 


suasive and intoxicating sentences — sentences which 
she had probably read in some of her prohibited 
novels. Suddenly he pressed his lips upon her fore- 
head. She uttered a startled cry, awoke, and buried 
her face in her unbound hair to hide her blushes. The 
room was dark and still. The whole household had 
been asleep for hours. 


CHAPTER III. 

The days which followed were to Manuela some 
of the most painful in her life. What, for example, 
is more trying, when one is suffering from a great 
sorrow, than to receive frigid condolences, and to 
hear all that we have most cherished and respected in 
the world coldly criticised ? Each time that Mme. de 
Clairac found fault with her niece, she took occasion 
to condemn the education that the poor girl had re- 
ceived. ‘‘ How could the child have been initiated 
into the practicalities and decorums of life ? Poor 
Henri had always been the victim of his own illu- 
sions. And as to the Mexicans, who had ever heard 
of their being good mothers, wives, or housekeepers ? 
Spanish levity added to the indolence of the Creole, 
and the American boldness engrafted on these two 
qualities ! Cosmopolitism always produced bad re- 
sults, particularly where children were concerned ! 
Ho, nothing could take the place of a home, of an 
abiding-place firmly rooted ! ” Let it be understood 


REMORSE. 


37 


that these remarks were not addressed directly to Ma- 
nuela, but they were always provoked either by her 
language or some act of hers, and were often uttered 
in her presence. Manuela understood only too well 
the smallest allusion to her incapacity, to her child- 
ishness, and felt it very keenly. She suffered also 
quite as keenly when they said to her, “ It is not your 
fault ! ” knowing only too well whose fault they con- 
sidered it to be. 

It was unquestionably true, notwithstanding all 
her efforts and her willingness, that the poor child 
was absolutely useless. Mme. de Clairac supposed 
that she could make her of use as a dame de com- 
pagnie; she therefore dictated to her one morning 
from her bed a half dozen notes intended to remind 
certain acquaintances, who seemed to have forgotten 
her, of the road to her house ; but Manuela, who 
wrote French like a foreigner, made but an indiffer- 
ent secretary. Again, while Mme. de Clairac drank 
her chocolate, she requested her niece to read the 
morning’s papers aloud ; now, there were certain 
money articles which naturally failed to interest the 
young girl, and which she read with an air of not 
understanding them. ‘‘She is certainly lacking in 
common-sense ! ” decided Mme. de Clairac. The first 
time when, tempted by a bright, frosty morning, Ma- 
nuela spoke of going out to walk, her aunt quickly in- 
terposed. “ You will never leave the house,” she said, 
“ except with me or one of your cousins.” 

At first Mme. Ilalbronn was extremely obliging ; 
she took Manuela to all the shops, allowed her to be 


38 


REMORSE, 


present when she ordered costumes which were wor- 
thy of the trousseau of Peau d'Ane at Worth’s, and 
gave her many hints as to her own toilet. But all 
this kindness and interest ceased from a certain day 
when, at a fancy fair which took place for the ben- 
efit of a charity, Mme. Halbronn discovered that her 
cousin, whose assistance she had begged at her stall, 
attracted more attention than herself. Marthe soon 
after informed her that her days were full of busi- 
ness, and altogether too short for all she had to do. 
To rise at noon, to spend two hours at her toilet, 
then to hurry from one to another of twenty houses, 
and to return to her own for her five o’clock tea — 
a ball or theatre in the evening, sometimes both — 
was more than she could do. How was it possible 
for her to undertake anything in addition to this 
crushing load ? 

Mme. de Brives cautioned Manuela in regard to 
her sister’s frivolous nature and life, and oifered to 
be her guide wherever she wished to go ; but this her 
children would not permit her to do ; they occupied 
that admirable mother from morning until night. 
How could Manuela understand their exactions ? She 
was not fond of children — so at least Mme. de Brives 
declared ; but nothing in reality could be more un- 
just than this opinion. The young De Brives did not 
seem to her like children; they were spoiled by exces- 
sive culture ; they were forced and too precocious. 
They intimidated her by their ideas on most subjects, 
and by their airs of importance. The little girls were 
little women — the little boys, men of society; and 


REMORSE. 


39 


both looked upon the simplicity of their cousin with 
profound contempt. 

Poor Manuela, after having been taken up for 
a week, first by Mme. Halbronn and then by Mme. 
de Brives, was finally dropped by both, and compelled 
to await the movements of Mme. de Clairac whenever 
she wished to drive or walk. Her aunt went to the 
Bois two or three times each week in her small, stuffy 
coupe. The windows were always kept tightly closed, 
and it was crammed with furs, wraps, and foot- warmers. 
The young girl, oppressed by the close atmosphere, 
heard her aunt name the various persons whom they 
met, and listen^ dreamily while she gave her then- 
histories, one after the other, and added : “ Society has 
its good side, you see, my dear ; it takes us out of 
ourselves.’’ 

Mme. de Clairac had spent her entire life, in pub- 
lic ; like certain has-hleu of the seventeenth century, 
she always lived as if she were on the stage. Per- 
suaded that she was doing a kindness to the young 
orphan in introducing her to such habits of life, 
she forgot that sometimes things which are pleas- 
ures to ourselves are only noise and fatigue to 
others. 

One day Maurice Morton passed them on horse- 
back. Manuela was the first to see him. 

“ What ! ” said her aunt, who was near-sighted, in 
a low voice, “ you recognize a man whom you have 
seen but once, and then by candle-light ? How very 
flattering ! ” 

Maurice Morton had apparently as good eyes as 


40 


REMORSE. 


Mile, de Chelles. He came up to their carriage. 
Mme. de Clairac bade her niece drop the window on 
her side, as she herself feared the cold. Morton was 
therefore very near the young girl, and looked at her 
while he spoke to her aunt. “We have never been 
so long without seeing you before,” said the latter, in 
a tone of friendly reproach. 

“ I’ll come this evening and pay my respects, if you 
will permit me, madame,” he answered — his eyes still 
riveted on the girl’s face, plainly saying, “ I will come 
for your sake.” But this was involuntary on his 
part ; she affected him like an exquisite flower, whose 
beauty he liked to contemplate — that was all. Had 
he been conscious of danger, that he had avoided 
Mme. de Clairac’s salon ever since this delicate ex- 
otic had been transplanted to Paris ? Perhaps. There 
are certain presentiments to which we yield without 
defining them — without even' being conscious of the 
secret instinct which warns us. Maurice Morton, al- 
though he had been forcibly struck by the rare beauty 
of Mile, de Chelles, had no fear of falling in love like 
a schoolboy ; but he generally guarded his peace of 
mind with the greatest possible care, and made it a 
rule to turn away his head when he met any attrac- 
tive woman, whose lover he had neither the oppor- 
tunity nor the desire to become. 

This evening, nevertheless, he went to the baron- 
ess’s, as he had promised, either from fear as to the 
conclusions which would be drawn from his pro- 
longed absence, or because he was attracted there by 
an influence too powerful for his habitual prudence. 


REMORSE. 


41 


Manuela was the first person whom he perceived on 
entering ; she was seated a little aside, quietly dressed 
in her mourning garb, to which she had not added 
even a ribbon. Near her was Mme. Halbronn, who 
looked like a figure from a fashion-plate, as M. de 
Brives, the most abrupt of the hrothers-in-law, con- 
stantly took occasion to say. Almost without voli- 
tion, Maurice Morton went at once to Manuela. 
“ Ah ! mademoiselle,” he said, with his kindest smile, 
‘‘ I hope you are happy among us ? ” 

‘‘ My aunt and my cousins are kindness itself to 
me,” answered the girl, smiling in her turn, hut not 
quite naturally, a certain constraint being visible. 
She was very honest, and felt that, without having 
the desire or right to reproach any one, she was not 
at that moment speaking the precise truth. 

“ Undoubtedly ! ” answered Maurice, in a tone 
that had a tinge of sarcasm in it ; “I merely wish to 
express a hope that you are becoming accustomed to 
our French ways.” 

‘‘ France is Paradise,” replied the girl, with some 
hesitation. ‘‘ So I have always been told, and the 
little I have seen induces me to accept the state- 
ment ; yet — ” 

‘‘Yet?” 

“ Oh ! nothing, you know — manners and customs 
are so very different ! But do you not think, M. 
Morton, that women live here in a certain kind of 
bondage ? ” 

“Parisians, do you mean? Do you think so? 
Why ! they are the queens of the world ! They have 


42 


REMORSE. 


too much liberty and too much power. Their hus- 
bands — ” 

“ I speak of those who are not married — young 
girls, and even old maids. It seems to me that they 
are treated like children, and are kept as it were under 
lock and key. In America it is quite the contrary. 
Independence and all power of doing as one pleases 
cease on the day when a woman chooses a master.” 

“ And here the master is chosen for her ; that is 
all the difference, except that the victim is necessarily 
entitled to some compensations ; and she has them, I 
do assure you. The master, as you call him, is the 
slave in reality, and gives her utter and entire liberty, 
instead of depriving her of it. You will see this later, 
when you, in your turn, are married.” 

“ But if it should not suit me to be married ! ” an- 
swered Manuela, at that moment recalling what Mme. 
Halbronn had said, “ girls without dowry rarely mar- 
ry ! ” and smiled half sadly as she spoke. 

“Good heavens ! ” cried Maurice, greatly amused; 
“ you are rebelling early — ” 

“Not at all — I am entirely submissive to my des- 
tiny, whatever it may be ! ” 

“In that case, mademoiselle, you will certainly 
marry ; for in this country you must marry or retire 
from the world.” 

“ Then I will retire from the world,” thought the 
poor child, with her heart sinking like lead. “But 
tell me, monsieur,” she said, slowly, in her soft, clear 
accents; “you are speaking, I presume, of girls who 
have fortunes and every perfection ; but what be- 


REMORSE, 


43 


comes, pray, of those young girls in France who are 
without dowry and friends ? They are the exceptions 
to your rule, probably ? ” 

“ Good ! ” thought Maurice Morton. “ Some one 
has been charitably enlightening her.” 

“Such persons,” he answered, gravely, “are re- 
leased from all ordinary trammels ; they toil and earn 
their bread, after the fashion which seemeth best to 
them, and thus acquire the same rights as man to their 
independence.” 

A sudden light flashed into the brown depths of 
Manuela’s eyes. 

“ But all the same, they are out of the world,” 
added Maurice, carelessly. 

She looked at him with no comprehension of his 
meaning ; but in her eyes he read a vague appeal for 
advice, succor, and explanation. 

“ Upon my word, mamma ! ” said Mme. Halbronn, 
at the other end of the salon, “Morton is devoting 
himself to Manuela. Look, mamma ! and just see 
with what freedom the child receives him. Can it be 
that she is a coquette ? ” 

Without waiting for her mother’s reply, Marthe 
crossed the room with a bounding step peculiar to 
her ; for in all Mme. Halbronn’s affectations there 
was a tinge of hoydenism. 

“ I beg your pardon, my mother wants you,” she 
said, as, reaching Morton, she tapped him with the end 
of her fan. 

He rose meekly and went away, but not till he had 
said in a low voice to Mile, de Chelles ; “you see 


u 


REMORSE. 


tUe-d-tetes are not allowed to young ladies in France,” 
and added, with a rapid glance at Mme. Halbronn, 
who, a yard or two from them, was laughing merrily 
with one of her attaches whom she had brought to 
display in her mother’s parlor: “Beware ! beware of 
that spoiled child.” 

And there were indeed excellent reasons why 
Manuela should distrust her cousin Marthe. Some 
five years previous to the date at which our story 
opens, Mme. de Clairac — who was too much of a hel 
esprit to occupy herself with her daughters, and indeed 
saw them only at rare intervals — was warned by her 
governess, Mile. Foucher, of a threatening danger. 
Marthe, the governess declared, was more interested 
in Maurice Morton than she had any right to be. The 
truth was that he was the only one of her mother’s 
guests who was either young or handsome. It was evi- 
dently one of those youthful caprices called calf love by 
our English neighbors — a phrase that cannot be well 
rendered into French, although a synonymous idea 
may be conveyed by the words milk-teeth ; but milk- 
teeth, although the roots may not be deep, do not fall 
out of themselves, and Mme. de Clairac decided to tug 
this one out immediately. Marthe, her mother said, 
could fancy Morton only for his handsome face, being 
incapable of appreciating his mind, and knowing noth- 
ing of his talents ; it would be consequently a very 
easy matter to replace this ideal by the first good-look- 
ing fellow who made his appearance. The baroness, 
who looked on Maurice as the principal ornament of 
her salon, by no means wished him for a son-in-law. 


REMORSE. 


45 


Neither his character nor his fortune offered the guar- 
antees which a prudent mother seeks. But Mme. de 
Clairac understood that opposition only strengthened 
girls’ fancies, and she feared to take any active steps. 
At last, however, she decided to make an appeal to the 
honor of M. Morton himself, and bestow upon him the 
most absolute confidence. A tete-d-tete adroitly man- 
aged permitted her to speak in the most natural way, 
first of the future of her daughters, and then of a plan 
that she had formed some time before for Marthe’s 
marriage. Morton’s stolid indifference encouraged 
her, and she added that this pet project would proba- 
bly lead to nothing, thanks to the obstinate fancies of 
a certain little lady. 

Morton laughed. “ It can’t be possible,” he said, 
“ that this child in her short dresses can think of any- 
thing but her dolls.” 

“Yes, for several weeks the doll has had a terrible 
rival — guess whom ? ” 

“ A dancing-master — a tenor — ” 

“Yourself ! ” 

Maurice Morton continued to laugh, then brought 
up another subject, and toward the end of his visit in- 
formed Mme. de Clairac of his approaching departure 
for the East. This voyage he had always dreamed of ; 
he had come now to say good-by. Mme. de Clairac, 
delighted at being so well understood, gave him a 
hearty pressure of the hand as her lips bade him God- 
speed. In reality, however, her gratitude was thrown 
away, for Mile. Marthe, of whom marriage had since 
made a most brilliant woman, was at this epoch only 


46 


REMORSE. 


an insignificant chrysalis, to whom Morton had really 
accorded less attention than to the china jars in her 
mother’s salon. 

When he returned bronzed by Egyptian suns, after 
a rapid and delightful trip, he found his Ariadne mar- 
ried to M. Halbronn, who had been presented to her 
after his departure. She seemed very happy, and in 
truth was really so. Never since then had she been 
more coquettish to him than to other men of her cir- 
cle; perhaps there was even a shade more of coldness; 
nevertheless, it was not very difficult to understand 
why she was unwilling to see him in love with Ma- 
nuela. From respectful courtesy to love there was, to 
be sure, a long step ; but certain discreet attentions 
had awakened her suspicions as to the person who had 
inspired them. From that time she closely watched 
her cousin. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The next day Maurice came again to Mme. de 
Clairac’s, and, as he had done the previous evening, 
took occasion to say a few words to the pretty poor 
relation. 

“You wished to ask me a question, mademoiselle,” 
he said, abruptly. 

She turned toward him a face of confusion and dis- 
tress. “ I do not remember,” she answered, slowly. 

“ You do not remember ! And yet we were talking 


REMORSE. 

of most interesting things, in a most serious, almost 
confidential manner.” 

Her trouble increased, and she stammered: “ I beg 
your pardon — I had forgotten — ” 

“ I can tell, mademoiselle, what you wish to say, 
if I am not mistaken,” answered Morton, -vvdth a kindly 
smile. “You reproach yourself for having talked 
freely with me, whom you know so little. I am grate- 
ful for this forgetfulness on your part, and with your 
permission we will never return to commonplaces in 
our conversation. You are not mistaken in thinking 
that you may count upon me as a friend.” 

She thanked him with a look full of trust. Under 
those eyes he became at once thoroughly sincere, if he 
had not been so before. 

“ Let me see,” he continued ; “ as well as I could 
understand, you were contemplating the future — the 
future which awaits you in this house — with some 
anxiety.” 

“Yes,” said Manuela, summoning all her courage, 
“ because the present, which of course resembles the 
future, offers nothing agreeable. I am afraid of lead- 
ing a useless life, of growing old in a wealthy home 
wherein I have no definite position. This thought 
troubles me, and I was tempted to speak frankly to — ” 

“ To the baroness ? ” 

“ You think I made a mistake ? Ah, well ! it is 
done ; for, encouraged by you, I spoke to her to-day.'^’ 

“ Encouraged by me ? I do not remember having 
said anything on that point.” 

“You dropped one phrase which has rung in my 


48 


REMORSE. 


ear ever since — ‘ to earn my bread ! ’ The phrase has 
a strange charm for me. I begged my aunt to put 
me in the way of attaining this end — this honorable 
end, it seems to me. Is it not so ? ” 

‘‘ Indeed it is. May I ask what your aunt said to 
you in reply ? ” 

Manuela dropped her eyes and did not speak. 

‘‘ She told you,” said Maurice, continuing to show 
his marvelous penetration, “ that you are terrified at 
shadows ; that we are absurd in desiring to create 
any more or different duties than those which come 
to us naturally ; and that your first, your only duty 
in fact was never to forget that you are Mile, de 
Chelles.” 

‘‘As to that,” interrupted Manuela, throwing her 
head back with a haughty air, there is little fear of 
my forgetting it. But you are strangely correct in 
your idea of our conversation. It seems that Mile, 
de Chelles cannot be a governess nor a companion, nor 
go out into the world among strangers in any capacity. 
Besides, she is altogether too ignorant to be useful in 
the position of a teacher. This is what my aunt told 
me gravely; and even added: ‘ I will not insult you by 
the supposition that the career of an actress can 
have any attraction for you ; our name must never be 
degraded by any association with the boards.’ ” 

“ And yet ” — said Morton, with a significant shake 
of his head, “ that is the only possible way — ” he 
hesitated, while she looked at him in a state of 
absolute uncertainty whether he spoke seriously or 
not, and almost in dread lest he intended to add a 


REMORSE. 


49 


dash of wounding irony to the severe lesson inflicted 
upon her that very morning by Mme. de Clairac. 

“ At last,” she resumed, “ my aunt declared that 
she would never permit me to follow my father’s ex- 
ample, and emigrate to America — ah, I understood 
her but too well — ‘ merely from the love of adven- 
ture,’ she said.’ 

Manuela uttered these last words in a tone of in- 
tense mortification and bitterness. There is nothing 
more hideously painful to a youthful nature than to 
be misunderstood on the threshold of life. What 
Manuela desired was not adventure ; on the contrary, 
she craved only the humblest security. The desire 
for those obscure labors which might lead to indepen- 
dence had been promptly repressed as indications of 
revolting audacity. Her motives had been misunder- 
stood, her feeling had been wounded, and the evil 
was irreparable. 

The peculiar interest which she inspired in Mau- 
rice Morton was now on the increase. Although he 
was by no means romantic on his own account, he was 
nevertheless attracted toward all romance and poetry. 
How, this charming young lady, with her longings 
for independence, her sorrows and her artlessness, the 
swift anger of her youth, her newly-awakened imagi- 
nation, was poetry itself. The very voice of Maurice 
had an inflection which was totally unfamiliar to all 
who knew him. 

“ At your age, mademoiselle, there is much to 
hope for. Life is yours, and it will not deceive you, 
richly endowed as you are.” And he proceeded to 
3 


50 


REMORSE. 


describe to her, in order to arouse her from too grave 
thoughts, that Parisian life into which she would 
naturally be initiated. But the orphan cast on the 
folds of crape in which she was enveloped a look 
which imposed silence upon him. “ It is not the loss 
of worldly pleasures of which I complain,” she said. 
In reality the deficiencies she felt were those of 
affection, sympathy, a hearty interest in her welfare, 
and a strong support to lean upon. With Maurice 
she felt herself less desolate now than before their 
conversation — a conversation so exceedingly strange 
between two persons almost unknown to each 
other. 

Fortunately Mme. Halbronn was not present ; she 
would have been quick to notice that Manuela’s lips 
trembled, that the ordinarily gay manner of Morton 
was softened by a certain compassion that was near 
akin to tenderness ; and what conclusions would not 
Marthe have drawn from these indications ? Her sis- 
ter, in her absence, looked on with eyes which were 
quite as observing, though more indifferent. 

“ How happens it that M. Morton talks so willing- 
ly to Manuela ? ” she said to her mother. 

“ I do not know,” answered Mme. de Clairac, with 
some acerbity ; “ the child is not clever ! ” 

“ But he must find something attractive,” persisted 
Mme. de Brives, who never herself exercised any sort 
of influence over the opposite sex, and who, conse- 
quently, spoke and thought of them with feelings of 
mingled indignation and contempt. “It would be 
best, dear mother, to give the child a little good ad- 


REMORSE, 


51 


vice. Without intending to do the smallest thing 
that is wrong, she may so very easily compromise 
herself by some folly. Your responsibility is a heavy 
one, I fear — ” 

“ Alas ! ” sighed Mme. de Clairac, “ I know that 
only too well. And I will do what I ought, although 
I shall meet only with ingratitude in return. Will 
you believe that she already talks of leaving us, of 
taking a situation in a family or a school, as a — But 
I dare not utter the word. What would the world 
think of us ? It would look as if we had forgotten 
and discarded her.” 

“I trust that you put an end to such absurd 
projects,” answered Mme. de Brives, much startled. 

“ You would have done far better to let her re- 
main in America,” grumbled M. de Brives, who had 
but little confidence in pretty women, and who had 
proved this distrust by his choice of a wife, who was 
excessively plain. 

At this very moment Manuela asked Maurice the 
same question which her cousin had just addressed to 
Mme. de Clairac. She frankly expressed her surprise 
to him that he should feel any interest in the tastes 
and opinions of so ignorant a girl as herself. “ Re- 
member,” she said, ‘‘that I know nothing, that I have 
only my instincts to guide me.” 

“ And it is that which pleases me in you,” replied 
Maurice. “You are yourself — a most rare quality! 
If you could know with how much pleasure one meets 
with anything natural in a salon in Paris ! This house 
is, I think, the most agreeable in town ; and yet, every 


52 


REMORSE. 


one here plays a part, myself as well as all the others. 
Look, there are your two cousins, each a woman of 
the world : of such different styles, however, that 
neither encroaches on the domain of the other. Mi- 
nerva and the Graces ! Susanne is dignity itself, and 
Marthe is coquettish and piquant. They each decided 
years ago which character to assume ! You are the 
only one that is simple and true ; and you complain of 
your lot ! ” 

Manuela supposed that he wished to console her 
for her intellectual inferiority, which she naturally 
much exaggerated, but which would not be of long 
duration ; for women require little cultivation to en- 
able them to assimilate quickly to congenial surround- 
ings. This silent supernumerary, who poured out tea 
or who embroidered in a comer, listened to all that 
was said round her, and, in time, order came out 
of chaos. She began to dimly comprehend, and by 
degrees her progress, although invisible to others and 
unsuspected by herself, became very real and rapid. 
Maurice cared little for this. His ideas on the sub- 
ject of woman had been always somewhat oriental. 
“ Let her be beautiful, with a soft name easy to pro- 
nounce ! ” He asked no more. How, the name of 
Manuela was the sweetest in the world, and her beau- 
ty exercised over him a most extraordinary power. 
When he met her truthful eyes, he felt a delicious 
freshness pervade his whole heart, as if all the lost 
illusions of his youth had been restored to him, and 
as if the love which comes to man but once in a life- 
time — and to some men never — had begun to blossom 


REMORSE. 


53 


in tlie secret depths of liis soul. His prejudices, all 
that he had called his convictions — contempt for man 
in general, and for the social laws by which most of 
them allow their lives to he cramped — all those ideas 
vanished, were dissipated like mist before the sun. 
He cared for little else than the happiness of living 
under the magic of her smile, her look, and her voice. 
The mefe silent presence of Manuela affected his 
senses like delicious music or an exquisite perfume. 
Hear her, he was a real poet, and inspiration came to 
him unsought. On awaking in the morning and begin- 
ning the pleasures or business of the day, he said to 
himself that he should see her in the evening. This 
sweet surrender of himself ended by irritating him ; 
he resisted it. But, invariably, a magnetic attraction 
drew him, in spite of himself and of the occupation 
he had marked out, to Mme. de Clairac’s ; and, on 
entering, his eyes at once sought those of Manuela, 
wherein he fancied he could read reproach for his too- 
long absence or joy for his return. The emotion he 
felt was a constant astonishment to himself. He often 
took a seat a little apart, contenting himself with 
watching her move through the salon while perform- 
ing the innumerable small duties which now devolved 
upon her. 

“You look like a opium-eater in a trance,” said 
M. Halbronn to him once. “Who is the houri of 
whom you dream ? ” 

And he glanced laughingly at his young cousin, 
whom he had not forgiven for treating him as a mar- 
ried man, “whose attentions were no more compro- 


54 


REMORSE. 


mising than those of a grandfather,” he added to him- 
self with some bitterness. 

‘‘ Who would have believed it possible ? ” said 
Mme. Halbronn a little later, addressing her husband, 
but loudly enough for the others to hear. “Poor 
Morton is rapidly becoming absolutely foolish. It is 
impossible to get a word out of him since he became 
so monopolized by Manuela.” 

“ By me ! ” exclaimed the young girl ; “ monopo- 
lized by me ! ” she repeated with flashing eyes. 

“ The word is a trifle too strong,” objected Mme. 
de Clairac. 

“ Aunt,” said Manuela, and indignant tears filled 
her eyes, “ I shall not come into the salon again in the 
evening.” 

“ What an idea ! Do you think then, my child, 
that you cannot appear without disturbing the peace 
of mind of the men who frequent my house ? Men 
are always disposed to pay attentions to a pretty girl ; 
and all she has to do is to repress them with dignity.” 

“My aunt does not love me, and Marthe hates me,” 
thought Manuela. Suddenly the cloud left her face, 
and she uttered a joyous laugh, which, coming so sud- 
denly after her excessive sadness, might have led a 
looker-on to conceive some doubts of her sanity. Lit- 
tle did the coldness of the one, or the hatred of the 
other, matter to her if it were true, as was evidently 
their idea, that Maurice Morton was interested in her. 
She would never have ventured to indulge in such a 
supposition but for the warnings and unjust reproaches 
of her family ! 


REMORSE, 


55 


Nevertheless, as an entirely new feeling of timid- 
ity and wounded modesty mingled with her wish to 
please Mme. de Clairac, and with her habitual inten- 
tion of obeying her, she dropped her natural manner 
with Maurice, and put on a coldness which he easily 
mistook for distrust. If she had been an experienced 
coquette, she could not have adopted a better method 
of deepening his interest. One evening, as she passed 
him with a cup of tea in her hand, he said to her in a 
low voice : “ May I ask if it is in obedience to any 
command which you have received that you treat me 
as you do ? Or is it a voluntary act on your part ? ” 

At first she pretended not to understand him. 

“ Tell me,” he insisted, as he took the cup of tea 
and at the same time retained the tips of her fingers 
in his own — Tell me,” he repeated, “ or I shall be 
very unhappy. You have been vexed on account of 
me, and you are annoyed that I should have been the 
unfortunate cause.” 

She colored, tried to speak, but the words would 
not come. She hastily turned away — leaving Maurice 
extremely disturbed — “ Poor child ! ” he thought. 

Happy indeed will be the man who can release her 
from her servitude ! ” The idea did not, however, 
occur to him that he might be the man, although he 
was conscious that he already hated the one who would 
open to Manuela the enchanted land of freedom and 
happiness. ‘‘ It is impossible,” he said, “ that a creat- 
ure so made for love has never dreamed of it.” The 
yoke which Maurice Morton, like many men of his class, 
most feared was the yoke of matrimony. He made 


56 


REMORSE. 


his visits fewer and adopted a reserved manner toward 
Manuela, which she took for a proof of strong affec- 
tion, for a general desire not to complicate the difficul- 
ties of her delicate position ; but Marthe Halbronn 
drew from this sudden change a veiy different conclu- 
sion, which she condensed into four words : “ They un- 
derstand each other I ” 


CHAPTER V. 

About this time Maurice finished a play for the 
Theatre Fran9ais. Never had he worked so continu- 
ously as on this drama, having renounced some time 
before certain small dissipations which were, to say 
the least, unfavorable to the development of his talent. 
When he shut himself from the world, Maurice Morton 
flattered himself that he was making a great sacrifice 
to art. This was perhaps an illusion ; but art profited 
by the mistake, and this play, composed in the tumult 
of sweet thoughts awakened to life by Mile, de Chelles, 
was his best work. It was put upon the stage in the 
spring. Manuela’s deep mourning had been lightened 
somewhat ; she accompanied her aunt to the Conser- 
vatoire, to the lectures at the Institute, and was per- 
mitted several other pleasures of the same grave style 
— the only ones in which Mme. de Clairac ever parti- 
cipated. Everywhere she went this new and beautiful 
figure attracted all the lorgnettes in the house, and 
her chaperon expressed infinite annoyance. 


REMORSE. 


57 


“ It is her own fault,” said Mme. de Brives, “ for 
many women far more elegant and much prettier pass 
unnoticed. Her Spanish fashion of using her fan is 
alone enough to excite attention.” 

“ Why do you take her anywhere ? ” added Mme. 
Halbronn, who had decided in advance that the proper 
role for her cousin to play was that of Cinderella, 
without the prince or the fairy godmother. 

Perhaps these wise counsels would have taken ef- 
fect, and Manuela would not have been permitted to 
be present at the first representation of Maurice Mor- 
ton’s play had he not declared, when he presented the 
baroness with a box, that this time there was not a 
drop of poison. “A school-girl,” he said, “may hear 
it with impunity.” Manuela was therefore allowed 
to share the emotions of the eventful evening. She 
had dreamed of it for weeks before, declaring that 
her anxiety arose only from interest in the success of 
her friend and his work. But the mere sight of the 
theatre bills agitated her ; the name of the actress 
who took the principal part cost her a pang of envy. 
To be worthy of repeating his thoughts, to be in- 
trusted with the pearls of that rich treasury, to aid in 
his success — what a glorious task ! How she longed 
to be in that woman’s place ! How she wished that 
she had the necessary talent to serve as interpreter to 
the poet, of whom she was the humblest of admirers ; 
but even to admire and to witness this triumph would 
be intoxicating in itself, and the expectation of this 
joy almost gave her a fever. Seated at the back of 
the box, behind her aunt and her cousin Marthe, she 


58 


REMORSE, 


was lost in astonishment at the tranquillity with which 
they exchanged their opinions and prognostics on the 
result of the evening. But all the spectators did the 
same ; their evident curiosity had no dash of the keen 
anxiety which filled her own heart. The author him- 
self took no more hearty interest than herself, and 
was in fact infinitely less disturbed. The curtain rose 
on one of those striking situations of which Maurice 
Morton so thoroughly understood the secret. The 
attentive silence pervading the whole house was a 
happy augury, but Manuela did not draw a long 
breath until she heard the first thunder of applause, 
in which Mme. de Clairac and her daughter joined 
with great enthusiasm. Manuela did not stir ; to all 
appearance she was indifferent and unmoved, putting 
a strong constraint on herself, so fearful was she of 
exciting comment ; her heart, however, beat in unison 
with all those gloved hands. The actress, celebrated 
for her talent and her face, undoubtedly contributed 
to the favorable reception of the first act. ‘‘ It is im- 
possible,” thought Manuela, “ for him not to worship 
this woman, who so thoroughly comprehends and re- 
produces his ideas and his poetry.” A pang of sharp 
anxiety shot through her heart at this idea. “ But 
can she love ? What is she off the stage, robbed of 
all the charm with which he invests her ? Ah ! what 
a glorious career is that of an actress ; how does the 
world dare to look down upon it ? And how easy it 
would be to brave the contempt of the world from 
such a pedestal ! ” 

During the entr'acte^ the crowded house was filled 


REMORSE. 


59 


with a buzzing sound which Manuela in vain sought 
to interpret ; she dreaded lest she should catch in 
this concert of general approval one discordant note. 
Many men came to pay their respects to Mme. de 
Clairac. Some expressed admiration, others discussed 
and argued, being themselves of the profession ; some 
again were simply enthusiastic, and to these last Ma- 
nuela found it difficult not to utter words of grati- 
tude. 

The second act would be decisive. Certain pas- 
sages, which did not adhere to the traditions of Mo- 
liere, were received with a tinge of coldness. But 
these doubtful passages were those which Manuela 
most liked ; it seemed to her that she must cry out 
aloud, to the whole house : “ Can you not see ? Do 
you not understand ? ” Then came a happy hit, which 
took the audience off their feet; the professional critics 
unsealed their lips ; the hesitating dilettanti gently 
applauded; and, the action of the play continuing with 
unexpected vigor, it was easy to see that the waver- 
ing judgment of the public was fixed, and that the 
author held the audience in his hands. Manuela re- 
alized this, but was nevertheless dizzy with joy when 
the calm voice of Mme. de Clairac declared that vic- 
tory was certain. In fact, the entire third act was 
a long ovation. When the act was over, and the 
actors were called before the curtain, Morton slipped 
quietly into Mme. de Clairac’s box. She and her 
daughter overwhelmed him with compliments. Ma- 
nuela alone was silent. She had turned away her 
head, fearing that the excess of her emotion would 


60 


REMORSE. 


be perceived. Maurice saw only her profile against 
the dark background of the box — a brown curl falling 
on the whiteness of the rounded throat, which rose 
like a lily from among the muslin folds of one of 
those Marie Antoinette fichus so well calculated for 
slender figures. A white rose trembled in her hair. 
All this unusual care in her toilet was for his sake, 
Maurice thought. She had dressed to do him honor. 
“ And you, mademoiselle,” he said, to compel her to 
turn toward him, “ are you pleased ? ” 

Manuela looked around, and it seemed to him that 
he saw her for the first time, so transfigured was she 
by the passionate beating of her heart. The charming 
face that she lifted was covered with tears. She dried 
them hastily, and pushed her chair still farther back 
in the shadow. 

At this moment the curtain went up ; the Argus 
eyes of Mme. Halbronn seemed otherwise occupied, 
and Maurice snatched the little embroidered handker- 
chief that lay on Manuela’s knee and pressed it to his 
lips. 

“ This,” he said to her in a low, hoarse whisper, 
“ is the most precious moment of my life, and a tribute 
for which I would willingly sacrifice all the others.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Mme. Halbronn, turning around 
with a smile. ‘‘ Hush ! you prevent us from hearing.” 

Maurice left the box, and Manuela heard little of 
the rest of the play ; it seemed to her that the thun- 
ders of applause, that formidable storm which accom- 
panies and proclaims success, announced that heaven 
and earth took part in her happiness. She hardly 


REMORSE. 


61 


knew how she left the theatre, how she entered the 
carriage, and at last reached her own room, where she 
fell on her knees and poured out the impetuous tor- 
rent of her joy in prayer and thankfulness to that 
pitying Father in heaven who knew that her happi- 
ness was hut a mirage, and that a sad awakening was 
in store for her. 

Of what account was this poor child, in this hour 
of triumph, to the poet, who felt himself at that mo- 
ment to he king of the universe, and worthy of all 
that was heautiful and desirable, as a reward and 
encouragement to his genius? But was there any- 
thing more desirable than that radiant apparition, 
seen through the fragrant smoke and incense of suc- 
cess? The scene of the box was, in fact, the one 
event of that triumphal night which Maurice held 
longest in remembrance ; the tears scattered at his 
feet, like the bouquets before the actress on the stage, 
he had gathered up in one kiss, more immaterial than 
any of which he had ever dreamed ; and this tribute 
gratified his heart, as the other homage had satisfied 
his pride. Maurice felt himself invested with that 
sort of royalty which lifts the successful artist and 
author far above all the potentates of earth, and for 
the moment he lost his self-control. Perhaps, had 
Mme. de Clairac and her daughter been absent, he 
would have snatched to his heart the divine phantom 
before him, only to repent of the act for the rest of 
his life. 

The next day, when, after a gay supper given to 
him by his friends, he found within his breast the 


62 


REMORSE. 


little, tumbled handkerchief, torn by the grasp of 
nervous, excited fingers, he congratulated himself that 
he had been prevented from yielding to one of those 
mere momentary impulses which were each year be- 
coming more rare with him. Thanks to the very 
obstacles against which he at the time had rebelled, 
he had been unable to utter the irrevocable words. 
“ After all,” he said, half aloud, “ I am younger than 
I thought ! ” His conscience told him, nevertheless, 
that a girl of eighteen, frank and candid herself, 
might easily regard the merest trifle as amounting to 
a serious engagement. The C41imenes of society bet- 
ter understand the value and meaning of words and 
things ! 

Maurice Morton, half disenchanted, therefore, en- 
tered Mme. de Clairac’s house again with a certain 
vain uneasiness. “We have to pay for everything,” 
he thought, “ even for a brief moment of intoxication ; 
for it was only that after all.” The intoxication was 
so sweet, nevertheless, that he would gladly have once 
more experienced it, in spite of his fear of conse- 
quences. So great is the inconsequence of humanity, 
even that of a skeptic by profession, that, after having 
anxiously looked back upon the lengths he had already 
gone, Morton was deeply wounded by the indifference 
assumed by Mme. de Chelles on seeing him enter the 
salon. After a sleepless night — and a day passed in 
alternations of hope and perplexity — after she had 
asked herself a thousand times how she should greet 
him, what she should say to him, how she should meet 
him, Manuela suddenly decided, prompted by a girl- 


REMORSE. 


63 


ish spirit of mischief, perhaps, or by some American 
reminiscences, to hide her embarrassment by affected 
gayety. “ I will try it, at least ! ” she said. 

And she feigned a careless indifference which she 
was far enough from feeling, and turning to Morton 
with a gay laugh — 

“ Tell me,” she said, “ why it is that men in all 
classes of society have such a happy faculty of appro- 
priating things which do not belong to them ? ” 

Having discharged this small arrow, she left him 
no time to reply, hut at once launched into a recital 
of her adventure on the steamer which had brought 
her from Havana — the story of the steerage passenger 
and the stolen glove. 

Manuela had prepared her little tale in advance, 
and told it with much animation. 

‘‘ Why do you tell me this ? ” interrupted Maurice, 
secretly hut internally irritated. “ Is it a threat ? Do 
you mean to treat me as you did that poor devil ? ” 

For a moment he thought that she intended to re- 
claim her handkerchief, and was uncertain whether to 
he grateful or displeased. It was, to he sure, only a 
sentimental chiffon destined to repose in a drawer in 
very had company ; but it seemed to him that the tri- 
fle which had been surrendered to him with evident 
agitation was reclaimed with too much cool premedi- 
tation. He saw her change color, and was undeceived. 

‘‘ What would you say ? ” she added, still laugh- 
ing, hut with happiness this time — “ what would you 
say if I insisted on having my handkerchief again, and 
with it all the tears in which it was steeped ? ” 


64 


REMORSE. 


There was in her face an expression of such charm- 
ing composure, such a mixture of fright and tender- 
ness, that Maurice suddenly determined to enter the 
lists where a novice ventured to break her lance against 
his. ‘‘ You give it to me, then — you give it to me 
voluntarily,” he said in a low voice, but with an eager- 
ness which she could interpret as she pleased. “ You 
give it to me, then ? ” he repeated, leaning toward her. 
He looked as if his heart hung on the reply she was 
about to make. There was, however, no heart in the 
matter — only vanity ; but vanity is pitiless and ex- 
acting. 

She bowed her head slowly, almost solemnly. A 
sudden gravity overspread her face. Maurice had 
asked her life, and without any reservation she gave it 
to him — utterly and entirely, and forever. 


CHAPTER VI. 

To fully comprehend the dreams and delusions in 
which Mile, de Chelles passed the next six months 
after this last interview with Maurice Morton, we must 
remember that love, when it takes violent and com- 
plete possession of a strong nature, even if youthful, 
is often content to feed upon itself, requiring little 
other aliment ; it is the dupe of its own hopes ; all 
that it feels, it imagines itself to have inspired ; its 
reflection colors everything around it, and imparts a 
radiance and a life. Had she been younger, less con- 


REMORSE. 


65 


fident, and even less in love, Manuela would have 
been made very anxious by the sudden retreat of 
Maurice from the point at which he seemed to have 
arrived ; but she was determined not to open her 
eyes. If, in their conversations, he never alluded to 
a moment that was never far from her thoughts, it 
was a reticence which arose doubtless from respect : 
he would not speak of love before the arrival of the 
day when he could ask her to become his wife — the 
wife of Maurice Morton ! 

So great a happiness might at times seem to her 
most improbable ; but between a man of honor and a 
respectable girl, love could only end in marriage. 
Kot for one moment did Manuela do Maurice the in- 
justice of doubting the purity of his intention. 

“ Were I not motherless, were my position in the 
world more secure, he would be less scrupulous, I am 
sure,” she said to herself. “ It is simply his excessive 
delicacy which hinders him from expressing a senti- 
ment which he has permitted me to divine. Have I 
not a proof of this in the sympathy that he shows for 
me, in the extraordinary manner in which he reads 
my thoughts ? ” Why then did he not ask her hand ? 
Manuela had a reply to this question all ready. He 
was waiting until she laid aside her black, until her 
year of deep mourning was over. When that date 
came and passed without sign from him, she found 
another reason equally good ; and when she had no 
more excuses to offer, she bowed humbly and yet 
confidently before those which he had, and of which 
she was ignorant. 


66 


REMORSE. 


He came to Mme. de Clairac’s often, and took evi- 
dent pleasure in meeting the young gii'l and in talk- 
ing to her ; confided his plans to her ; talked of his 
daily work, of his new book and last play ; in short, 
made himself her guide, counsellor, and oracle. With 
what intense interest and care she gathered up the 
smallest word and opinion which dropped from his 
lips ! “ I must apply myself to my studies,” she said, 
“ to make myself worthy of him. But that is impos- 
sible ; I can only hope to conform to his tastes in 
every particular.” Of all that was going on around 
her, Mme. de Clairac chose to see but one thing, and 
that was that Maurice Morton, who had hitherto been 
so difiicult to secure, now was the constant habitue of 
her salon, even when she had taken her salon into 
the country. It is true that Mme. de Clairac’s coun- 
try was simply Saint-Cloud. Not being able to make 
up her mind to lose sight of her dear Paris, the only 
spot on earth where the air suited the lungs of this 
fine lady, she had decided on adopting this semblance 
of villegiature, as a happy way of combining her 
tastes with the orders of her physician, and also with 
the requirements of fashion ; but, although Saint- 
Cloud was almost Paris, her habitues did not follow 
her in a body ; some were traveling, and others ob- 
jected, either from age or habit, to any change in the 
routine of their lives, Morton’s visits, therefore, were 
all the more agreeable that they broke up a compara- 
tive solitude ; and he prevented her from feeling the 
absence or the indifference of her little court. How 
Manuela could attract him was to her aunt and cous- 


REMORSE, 


67 


ins a matter beyond all comprehension ; but the bar- 
oness accepted the fact with disdainful condescension. 

Her youth and her beauty amuse him,” she said to 
herself ; “ the admiration of young girls, although 
they are of so little consequence, always flatters the 
vanity of men.” 

Sometimes she made Manuela pay dearly for the 
success by which she profited, by multiplying the 
thousand petty exactions, the small humiliations, and 
the incessant pin-pricks which could be inflicted on a 
person occupying a dependent position. But Manue- 
la, once so sensitive to the smallest slight, had be- 
come absolutely invulnerable since she believed her- 
self beloved. In spite of her aunt’s fits of ill-temper, 
of the open war declared by Mme. Halbronn, of the 
warnings and spiteful hints given by Mme. de Brives, 
she was so happy that she often felt ashamed that she 
was not miserable. She reproached herself that she 
could find any consolation and hope, after a sorrow 
that should have been perpetual — the loss of her dear 
parents ; and in the depths of her heart she implored 
their pardon, while in prayers she asked that they 
would look down kindly on the great joy that had 
come to her, now that she was deprived of their ten- 
derness and care. Once only during this happy sum- 
mer did clouds cover her sky. Maurice, contrary to 
his habits, had not made his appearance for several 
days, and Mme. Halbronn carelessly insinuated that 
he had gone, as he had done for several years at the 
same season, to Switzerland with the Princess Donvo- 
ski, “ who,” as Marthe phrased it, “ was an old flame 


68 


REMORSE. 


of his.” Never was a thrust from stiletto more neat- 
ly administered by a small gloved hand. Manuela 
thought that night that life had lost all charms for 
her ; but the next morning, as soon as she saw Mau- 
rice hurrying up the garden-walk overhung by nod- 
ding plumes of white and purple lilacs, her fears all 
vanished. She ran to meet him. 

“You have come!” she cried. “I thought — I 
feared — ” 

“ What could you fear ? ” he asked, looking long 
and earnestly at the face of which he had caught 
a glimpse at the window. Then it was sad enough, 
now its expression was radiance itself — an expression 
which he knew he could call up at will. 

“ Nothing ; but I was told that you had gone far 
away — to the shores of the Lake of Geneva.” 

He saw at once who had shot the poisoned arrow, 
and instantly answered, unable to resist the pleasure 
of reassuring her : 

“ What an idea ! There is no probability of my 
ever going there again.” 

“But they say you have friends there.” 

“All my friends are here,” he answered, gravely. 

The evening of the same day there took place 
around Mme. de Clairac’s chair one of those literary 
sentimental discussions wherein the baroness liked to 
air the keenness of her wit. The discussion was d pro- 
pos of a new novel which attempted to prove a truth 
as old as the world itself : that love is rare, but that 
many things— vanity, egotism, unworthy passions of 
all kinds — often put on its appearance. 


REMORSE. 


69 


“ Alas ! how can one tell the true face from the 
false mask?” murmured the baroness, with a sigh, 
which was intended to let her audience understand 
that she herself had never been able to make the 
delicate distinction. 

“ Love truly,” answered Maurice, and these phan- 
toms of which you complain will vanish like the last 
sparks of a Catherine-wheel before the rising sun.” 

Manuela, seated with her embroidery in the cor- 
ner, did not lift her eyes ; but she felt Morton look at 
her. Her eyelids trembled under the electric glance, 
her cheeks flamed, and she pricked her fingers so that 
a drop of blood fell on the white needlework. 

“ Then he has often fancied himself in love,” she 
said, interpreting the words she had just heard accord- 
ing to her own fancy ; “ but now he really loves, and 
he means me ! ” It seemed to her that she had not 
strength to bear the great happiness she felt. 

Maurice understood each varying thought, and 
each day he found her more and more charming. To 
arouse and study in others those emotions which it is 
no longer possible for himself to feel is one of the last 
pleasures left to hlas^ natures. In fact,” said Mor- 
ton, I pledge myself to nothing. I shall not spoil 
her life. I, on the contrary, bring into this faded, 
meaningless existence an interest which without me 
would be lacking ; and I aid her to support the weight 
of these days of trial by my sympathy. Who knows 
that she will ever have any other happiness ? Then 
why not give her this ? ” 

He had heard more than one man who was inti- 


70 


REMORSE. 


mate at the house of Mme. de Clairac express a lively 
admiration for the charming foreigner ; but he had 
also heard it said that they dared go no further than 
admiration. 

“ None of these men wish to marry her,” thought 
Morton. “ They recoil before her poverty ; her ex- 
treme beauty injures rather than serves her. Conse- 
quently the poor child is left alone at an age when a 
wish to please is as natural as the breath she draws. 
I feel that I am worthy of all praise. The Platonic 
tie which binds us could not offend the most suscepti- 
ble of husbands, if by chance such a one should ever 
make his appearance for her ! ” The mere hypothesis 
brought a cloud upon his brow. To lose this charm- 
ing plaything would be a cruel blow, unquestionably. 
Sooner than allow it to be snatched from him he 
might even — “ Good ! wait till the time comes ! ” 

he murmured, half aloud. “ Until then,” resumed 
Maurice, with his skeptical smile, “ I am simply amus- 
ing myself in a most harmless fashion, since without 
me she would be forced to accept less respectable de- 
votion ; for she is impulsive, and her absolute sincerity 
is peculiarly unfortunate in a person in her situation. 
She is utterly incapable of the smallest calculation or 
diplomacy. I shall take every care not to compromise 
her. Being her aunt’s constant guest, it is only natu- 
ral that I should pay her niece some attention. Who 
would reproach me for that ? ” “ You — yourself,” 

interrupted a secret voice, which had more than once 
made itself heard from the dead ashes of his cold 
heart. But this voice was so faint that he easily sti- 


REMORSE. 


71 


fled it, and thrust aside all reflection until the hour 
should come when he would he compelled to take a 
decided position ; and this hour was nearer than he 
was pleased to believe. 


CHAPTER YIL 

Two or three weeks after Mme. de Clairac had re- 
turned to her winter-quarters in Paris, Manuela one 
morning was summoned by her aunt at an earlier hour 
than usual. As the girl entered the room she noticed 
that the baroness’s countenance wore an expression 
of unusual satisfaction. She was conscious, moreover, 
that her reception was much more gracious than usual; 
that there was almost a shade of deference in it, which 
struck her as being very singular. Had she acquired 
since the previous evening any new merit worthy of 
respect ? She was told to take a seat by the side of 
the bed. 

‘‘ My child,” said Mme. de Clairac, as she kissed 
her forehead, “ I have some good news for you ! 

Manuela looked at her aunt with questioning eyes. 

‘‘You have received a most unexpected offer of 
marriage.” 

“ I, aunt ? ” The girl thought she understood. She 
had learned many things in the time — nearly a year — 
that she had lived in France. She knew that, while 
the Hew World considers it inadmissible that the hands 
of young girls should be asked from any one but them- 


7 


72 REMORSE, 

selves, tlie Old World, at least, in France, regards it as 
utterly scandalous if the same demand is first addressed 
to any other than the parents. Maurice was French ; 
he, of course, would conform to French habits. Be- 
sides, had she not known for some time that she loved 
him? 

“ Why such astonishment ? ” said Mme. de Clairac, 
with a smile. “ I hope that the thought of marriage 
does not repel you ? ” 

“ My dear aunt, I have no repugnance to marriage, 
provided that the husband suits me.” 

“Ah ! As to that, I defy you to offer the smallest 
objection. The husband to be is above reproach — ^his 
age only — ” 

“ I do not like very young men.” 

“ Which speaks well for your prudence ! Besides, 
men of about forty have a more thoroughbred air than 
the small dandies of the present generation.” 

“ Forty, did you say, aunt ? ” 

“ Yes, darling. I do not wish to deceive you ; M. 
Walrey is at least as old as that.” 

“ Walrey ? ” — cried Manuela, stunned and stupe- 
fied, as if she had fallen from the top of a high preci- 
pice. “ Who is M. Walrey ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! you know him as well as I know him 
myself,” said Mme. de Clairac in a discontented tone ; 
“ he has been here almost every evening since our re- 
turn, and has been presented to you. He is very 
silent and reserved, modest to a fault, which ex- 
plains why he has never dared to pay you any atten- 
tion.” 


REMORSE. 73 

‘‘ Nor even speak to me, for that matter ! As to 
myself, I have never even looked at him ! ” 

“ How disdainful ! But he has looked at you, and 
to very good purpose. He was conquered the first 
time he saw you. He came to Paris on business ; his 
home is in the North. He is at the head of a great 
firm of metal-workers, and has lingered here from 
day to day solely on your account.” 

‘‘ You do not expect me to believe that, dear aunt, 
do you ? ” 

My dear, the deepest feelings are not those which 
are easiest of expression. You have awed him. Is 
not that somewhat of a triumph, for a girl of nineteen 
to awe a man of that stamp? By M. Walrey’s side 
all the other men in my salon seem dwarfs — have you 
not noticed that? It is his healthful, regular life 
which has so developed his manly beauty. You are 
not listening to me. Surely, these advantages of per- 
sonal appearance have value in your eyes ? Can you 
be indifferent to them ? Ah ! well, you are right, 
perhaps ; but when these advantages are allied to 
solidity of character — ” 

“ Has he solidity of character, aunt ? ” said Ma- 
nuela, by this time sufficiently recovered from her first 
astonishment to be sarcastic. “ I should say that you 
were hardly able to be certain of that.” 

“ But my son-in-law, Halbronn, knows him,” in- 
terrupted the baroness. “ Halbronn,” she continued, 
without perceiving the disdainful smile of her niece — 
‘‘ Halbronn has had business relations with him for 
some time ; they come from the same district. It was 
4 


74 


REMORSE. 


Marthe who brought him here, and introduced him to 
us with many praises. Since then she has never ceased 
saying to me : ‘ What luck it would he if he would 
only marry Manuela ! ’ Marthe is very fond of you, 
my dear ; she wishes only your happiness. And Su- 
sanne, on whose excellent judgment we can all safely 
rely, said only yesterday that, when the time came to 
marry her daughter, she would not ask for a better 
establishment for Pauline ; and yet Pauline’s dowry 
will be very large.” 

“It seems that this unexpected offer of M. Wal- 
rey’s has already been discussed by the family,” said 
Manuela. 

“ Why should I deny it ? It does you honor, and 
you are free to reply as you will. Shall I give him 
encouragement ? ” 

“ Good Heavens, aunt ! Are you thinking of such 
a thing ? ” 

“ Can I say less than that you desire time to re- 
flect ? Take care, Manuela ! To reject an offer like 
that would be an act of the purest insanity. Walrey 
is very rich. He is a man of the greatest importance 
in his own part of the world, and his family, if hum- 
ble, is thoroughly respectable. You will not regard 
that as a crime, I trust. In our day the difference in 
social grades is becoming constantly less and less 
marked, while money — ” 

“ Ah ! my aunt,” interrupted Manuela, “ there is 
no objection in my mind on account of his origin.” 

“ And what then ? What fault have you to And 
with him ? ” 


RE3fORSE. 


75 


“ !N’one at all — only I have hardly seen him, as I 
told you.” 

‘‘ Well ! then take your time and see him ; exam- 
ine your own heart, take the advice of your friends. 
But” — and Mme. de Clairac lowered her voice, and 
spoke with extreme slowness — “ hut, if you refuse at 
once, I shall he forced to believe — ” 

The fear of what her aunt would believe caused a 
cold shiver to pass over Manuela. Already it seemed 
to her that that piercing, inquisitorial eye read on her 
brow the name of Maurice Morton, printed in huge 
letters, and that those thin lips were about to say : “ It 
is Morton, then, whom you love ! ” 

“Yes,” she said, rising hurriedly from her chair. 
“ I must have time for reflection ; for this proposition 
finds me totally unprepared.” 

“ When I began to speak to you on the subject, 
you appeared to receive it favorably enough,” said 
Mme. Clairac, letting each word fall like a blow from 
a hammer. “ Perhaps you thought that I was speak- 
ing of some one else ? ” 

“ And of whom then, my dear aunt ? ” asked Ma- 
nuela, in a firm and tranquil tone ; but she hardly heard 
her own voice, as all the blood in her body seemed to 
be bubbling in her ears. 

“ How can I tell ? Of a man possibly whom you 
consider more brilliant, more witty. Wretched quali- 
ties those, let me assure you, in a husband, and most 
superfluous in a home ! ” 

Manuela, with lowered eyes, stood with her hands 
clasped over the post of the bed. She feared to loosen 


76 


REMORSE. 


them lest she should fall, and she felt that the beat- 
ing of her heart might be heard in the next room. 

“ And you need the very necessaries of life,” added 
the baroness, rudely, forgetting all her pretensions to 
delicacy. ‘‘ I may not always be able to give them to 
you — ” 

“ Madame ! ” interrupted the young girl, in a tone 
of indignant expostulation. 

Forgive me if I wound you, my child ; it is mere- 
ly to make you clearly understand your position, and 
to induce you to behave reasonably. M. Walrey will 
dine with us to-day. I have ordered a toilet for you 
which you will find in your room. Do not thank me.” 

Manuela had no idea of thanking her. “ She adorns 
me for the market ! ” she said to herself, bitterly, as 
she ascended the stairs to her own room. 

Nevertheless, when she saw the billowy silk with 
its clusters of Parma violets, she smiled with pleasure, 
nothwithstanding the profound depression of her spir- 
its ; and she hastily tried on the dress. Maurice 
would like me in this,” was her first thought. “ But 
to wear it would be an infidelity toward him,” was her 
second ; and she laid aside the tempting costume with 
feverish haste. 

She shivered, threw back her head haughtily, and 
said aloud, alone as she was : ‘‘ They shall not dispose 
of me so easily as they think ! I am his, and he will 
defend me ! ” 

Feminine vanity did not conquer her honest 
scruples. She appeared in the salon that evening 
dressed with her customary simplicity. When she 


REMORSE. 


77 


saw her niece, Mme. de Clairac, who had relied upon 
the effect of the girl’s dazzling shoulders to complete 
the subjugation of M. Walrey, drew down her mouth 
with a look of ill-humor, and said to Mme. de Brives, 
‘‘ It is evident that she does not care to please him ! ” 

‘‘ Or rather,” replied Susanne, “ she is too proud to 
borrow any attractions ; she chooses to please as she 
is, or not at all ! ” 

Manuela meanwhile approached Maurice with an 
air of perfect calmness. “ My aunt is going to a re- 
ception to-morrow at three o’clock,” she said, in a low 
voice. “You will find me alone. It is essential that 
I should see you and speak to you — on a most impor- 
tant subject,” she added, after a short pause, filled by 
silent questions from Maurice, who was as anxious as 
he was charmed by the prospect of the interview. 
“ They wish me to marry.” 

“M. Walrey, I suppose,” he exclaimed, with sud- 
den indignation. 

“ How quickly you understand ! ” 

“ Do you think, my child, that I have not remarked 
for these last weeks his open-mouthed admiration, his 
lover-like airs ? ” 

“ In that case you saw them before I did.” 

“ And he wishes to marry you ! ” continued Mau- 
rice, in a tone of intense bitterness. “ You are de- 
lighted, I suppose ? ” 

“ And why not ? ” she replied, with a smile. “ Noth- 
ing has taken place except his proposal ; and nothing 
will be done until I have your advice, and you tell me 
what you think.” 


78 


REMORSE. 


“ And you insist on my advice ? ” said Maui’ice, 
turning pale to his very lips. ‘‘ You wish to force 
me — ” 

“I force you to nothing. I simply beg you to 
come to-morrow and advise me.” She hesitated, and 
the color deepened on her cheek ; for she realized 
that her words were almost an offer of herself to him. 
“You know,” she added, “that I have every confi- 
dence in you — that I look upon you as my one friend. 
Are you not my friend ? ” 

“Yes, your friend,” he said, heartily, “your friend 
always, whatever may happen.” 

The tenderness in the eyes she lifted to his said 
very plainly, “ Do not he anxious ! ” But instantly, as 
if afraid of himself or of her, he turned away with a 
rapid step ; and turning his back on the room, he drew 
aside the curtains and rested his forehead against the 
glass of a window that looked out on the darkness of 
the night. The same tender glance followed him 
there from across the room. “ How agitated he is ! ” 
thought Manuela. “ I did wisely to rely on him ! ” 
Then her eyes turned slowly toward a man who, 
standing in a doorway, was watching her attentively. 
Without doubt she exaggerated when she told the 
baroness that morning that she had never seen M. 
Walrey ; this silent, almost provincial face and figure 
had struck her as a most incongruous element in her 
aunt’s salon, and she had never really examined him. 
Now for the first time she did so, and assuredly it was 
an unfortunate moment for M. Walrey, for he was 
not seen to his advantage ; that peculiar contraction 


REMORSE. 


79 


which physiognomists tell us betrays jealousy drew his 
thick eyebrows together, and changed the usual ex- 
pression of the face, whose great merit was that of be- 
ing frank, gay, and almost youthful, in spite of the 
first gray hairs, which served to soften and tone down 
the brightness of his tawny locks, which, crisp and 
curling, fell low over his broad forehead, and gave to 
his whole head a curious family resemblance to certain 
antiques. Its owner had a way of carrying it a little 
forward, which, joined to his tall figure and wide 
shoulders, recalled some caryatid. There is a Hercules 
in the Paris museum wonderfully like M. Walrey ; 
but it is quite possible that a demigod in a dress suit 
would not be a very attractive personage even in the 
eyes of the most romantic of young girls. Our por- 
trait of this new suitor would be by no means perfect 
were we to omit to mention that his hands were large 
but well shaped, and evidently accustomed to labor of 
some sort. His coloring was pale and clear, and showed 
every passing emotion. He had a superb blonde 
beard, whose golden waves were in sore need of prun- 
ing, deep-set gray eyes, and a smile that was brief 
and rare, but as frank and sweet as that of a child. 
Through his eyes shone a loyal, honest soul, ignorant 
of deceptions and wiles ; without any one of those 
mysterious, tortuous windings which attract and repel 
at the same time. 

His rare and fleeting smile suddenly effaced the 
deep mark between his eyes — the half frown which 
was habitual, and which Manuela was at the moment 
criticising with the coldness of an uninterested obser- 


80 


REMORSE. 


ver. At a whispered command issued by Mme. de 
Clairac, he hastily crossed the room, and offered his 
arm to Mile, de Chelles to take her in to dinner. 

Their places had been marked, and they sat next 
each other ; and though Manuela was resolved to give 
her neighbor no encouragement, the ice was broken be- 
tween them toward the middle of dinner ; at least M. 
Walrey, after drinking more Burgundy than was his 
custom, by way of gaining courage, suddenly opened 
a conversation. 

There was evident premeditation in the care with 
which he described the country which was his home, 
and Flemish manners and customs in general. He 
wished to assure himself that his habits of life would 
not repel the woman whom he wished to share his home. 
She answered only in monosyllables, and there was 
an obstinate closing of the lips which it is certain that 
Maurice would have seen had he sat there beside her ; 
but M. Walrey did not notice it, for he was too intently 
occupied in his struggle with the timidity which had 
always prevented him from talking very freely. This 
infirmity was useful to her just then, as persons so 
afflicted are ready to believe that others suffer in the 
same way. He therefore attributed the extreme re- 
serve of his companion to timidity, and continued to 
speak because he believed it was his duty to show her 
the precise position which awaited her — both its good 
and its bad side. 

“ If he only knew how little I care about it all ! ” 
thought Manuela, lending an indifferent but polite 
attention to his words. 


REMORSE. 


81 


He came but rarely to Paris, he said, and only re- 
mained for a very short time when business carried 
him there. The management of his manufacturing 
works demanded his constant presence and attention, 
and pinned him down in a small provincial town. His 
blast-furnaces, his rolling-mills, his forges, had been 
hitherto the one interest of his life. He loved the 
business, which his father had built up before him — 
that father, he said with pride, who was once a mere 
working man, a stoker, in fact. Walrey the father had 
perfected an engine or locomotive on a. railroad, which 
had been adopted throughout Europe, to the exclusion 
of all others, and this success had been the foundation 
of his millions. Thanks to this good man, whose 
name was honored throughout the length and breadth 
of his native land, his son had risen from the people 
and stood among the middle classes, by reason of his 
education and his wealth. He had gone through col- 
lege, and then into a special school, before he was 
placed at the head of the hundreds of workmen to 
whom his house gave employment. All that there 
was of good in him, he said, was due to his mother, 
and on her account he had delayed marrying. The 
thought that some young woman, luxuriously educat- 
ed and brought up, might treat her with contempt- 
uous disdain and make her unhappy had always de- 
terred him from all thoughts of the step. * 

‘‘You have a very bad opinion of women,” said 
Manuela, unable to refrain longer from speaking. 
“ What girl could have a heart bad enough to be lack- 
ing in respect and kindness toward age and virtue ? ” 


82 


REMORSE. 


The involuntary eagerness with which Mile, de 
Chelles had spoken, forgetting that she herself had 
any personal interest in the subject, gratified M. Wal- 
rey extremely. “ I was not mistaken in her,” he 
thought ; “ she is kind-hearted and amiable ! ” 

“And you think it possible, then, that a young 
girl who has enjoyed Parisian life need not be utterly 
miserable in the provinces ? ” he asked, somewhat em- 
boldened. 

“A girl need not be miserable anywhere, if she 
has duties and affections,” answered Manuela, coldly. 
“ Still, why do you not marry, in order to avoid any 
mistake, some lady in your own part of the country ? ” 
These words, uttered with evident intention, re- 
pelled to a frightful distance the unfortunate suitor, 
who had begun to feel encouraged. He had no longer 
the heart to continue a conversation which only a few 
moments before had filled him with hope, and re- 
lapsed into absolute and painful silence. 

This silence was a great relief to his neighbor, who 
then, without interruption, applied herself to a most 
difficult task — that of watching, through an enormous 
centre-piece of roses, Maurice Morton’s face. He was 
seated quite at the other end of the table. If she 
could not see him, she at least heard his voice, which 
vibrated with a sort of repressed nervous excitement, 
adding even more than usual keenness to the witty 
paradoxes which he gayly tossed to the right hand 
and to the left. He was a greater lion than usual — 
the hero of the entertainment. The table all listened 
to him, argued with him, and laughed with him. 


REMORSE. 


83 


Manuela felt no alarm at this apparent gayety. 
“ It is unnatural,” she said, “ to be sure, but he is com- 
pelled to dissimulate as I am ; and it is more than 
probable that he may do himself and me the injustice 
to believe that this man’s Flemish wealth may make 
me hesitate. Never mind ! all will be cleared up to- 
morrow.” 

It is certain that M. Walrey was ignorant of his 
neighbor’s thoughts, but he was not sorry that an im- 
mense bank of flowers lay between him and the other 
guests of Mme. de Clairac, who had, without excep- 
tion, impressed him with an inexplicable antipathy. 
That brilliant Parisian was especially repugnant to 
him ; he was disconcerting to his provincial rival, 
who looked upon him as dangerous and perfidious, as 
well as trifling. This last quality, in the eyes of the 
grave, broad-shouldered personage, the man who was 
overburdened with cares and responsibilities, was, per- 
haps, the worst of faults. Each time that he had seen 
Morton speak to Mile, de Chelles, he had felt that the 
success of his too ambitious hopes was imperiled. 
Once, in the beginning of his visits at the house of 
Mme. de Clairac, Walrey, who had always hitherto 
been able to control himself as well as others, found 
himself ii’resistibly tempted to confide something of 
this distrust and secret fear to Mme. Halbronn. It 
was she who had first discovered that he had lost his 
heart to Manuela ; it was she who had advised him to 
ask her hand rather than flee, as had been his avowed 
intention. She, too, it was who had volunteered to 
open the subject to Mme. de Clairac. Mme. Halbronn, 


84 


REMORSE. 


wlio was determined to disembarrass herself of her 
cousin, assured Walrey of his mistake. “Do you 
think,” she exclaimed, “ that the dear child has so lit- 
tle sense that she attaches any importance to the admi- 
ration of a man whom no woman in her senses would 
think of marrying ? Manuela knows M. Morton,” add- 
ed Marthe, “ and she has really very small regard or 
esteem for him. He wearies her, just as he wearies 
my mother and myself. We receive him just as we do 
the morning paper : we glean the news of the day 
from both, and then toss them both aside ! An inno- 
cent enough amusement, surely ! ” 

Walrey was quite willing to be persuaded. His 
passion, the first passion of a life that had been one of 
absolute seclusion, until he had reached an age when 
a man is ripe for the most irreparable follies, had al- 
ready conquered the filial affection which had hitherto 
imposed celibacy upon him ; and it now conquered 
the vague presentiments which indicated a rival in 
the person of Maurice Morton. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

It came — that to-morrow so ardently and impa- 
tiently anticipated by Manuela, that blessed to-mor- 
row which would put an end to all misunderstandings. 
Long before the hour appointed for the interview 
with Maurice, the young girl was seated in the salon^ 
where she intended to receive him, absorbed in guess- 


REMORSE. 


85 


ing what he would say to her ; inventing as a prelude 
to the declaration — which she anticipated as a matter 
of course — one of those dialogues which are invariably 
so satisfactory to us, because we invent both questions 
and replies. Even her very attitude was a matter of 
consideration to her. She did not wish to look as if 
she were expecting or waiting for him with any de- 
gree of impatience. Should she take her book or her 
embroidery ? She tried both— first one and then the 
other ; and, after all, when Morton came in, he found 
her at the window watching for his arrival. She 
turned quickly to greet him, blushing to the very 
roots of her hair ; but the color slowly receded, leav- 
ing her as white as marble. A sudden terror over- 
whelmed her, without her understanding why. Some- 
thing she had never before seen, a new expression in 
Morton’s face, struck a chill to her heart. What was 
it ? It was in no degree like the anger and grief which 
she had seen there when he first heard of M. Wal- 
rey’s suit ; nor did it suggest an intention of persever- 
ing himself. She could read there neither sadness nor 
joy ; there was nothing in fact to be discovered under 
that strange impassibility — absolutely nothing ! He 
was simply the Maurice Morton whom the world 
knew — the disdainful and cold man of the world, 
treading down in his pitiless selfishness those human 
passions which hd. shared only in a condescending sort 
of way, analyzing and using them as studies in his 
profession of playwright and author. Manuela felt — 
and this intuition filled her with shame — that she was 
totally under his control. Trembling, she pointed to 


86 


REMORSE. 


a chair. Before he seated himself, he took her hand 
and pressed it violently, not tenderly — much as if he 
were saying to himself, “ Once more — it is the last 
time ! ” And such was in reality Morton’s secret 
thought. 

“ You have asked my advice,” he said, abruptly. 
“This advice I now bring to you, after a sleepless 
night.” 

Manuela started. The words she confidently ex- 
pected did not demand so much thought. 

“You made a demand on my friendship,” con- 
tinued Maurice. “ I have silenced all that was not 
friendship, in order that I might remain worthy of the 
confidence you show me. How much it costs me you 
will never know. I shall regret your absence prob- 
ably more than any one here. I shall suffer more from 
your forgetfulness perhaps.” 

Manuela lifted her eyes. A stag at bay, hemmed 
in by a pack of hounds, and half drowning in deep 
waters into which she had been driven by her pur- 
suers, might look from just such eyes ; and for long 
months Maurice was unable to forget them. He lifted 
the slender hand that hung helplessly at her side, and 
pressed it gravely to his lips with a pity so deep and 
tender that it might readily have been mistaken for 
love ; but Manuela saw more clearly now — clearly 
enough at least to realize the depth of the abyss 
which yawned before her — and she withdi'ew her 
hand. 

“ What I am going to say to you,” continued 
Maurice — his voice was less firm than when he began 


REMORSE. 


87 


to speak, although his compressed lips expressed in- 
flexible determination, and seemed to say, “Suffer, 
fool ! but do not waver, do your duty ! ” — “ What 
I am going to say, I would say to my sister.” 

A faint smile, ironical and sad, flitted over Manu- 
ela’s face. 

“Marry M. Walrey,” said Morton in a cold, hard 
voice. These words fell on the silence of the room 
with the dull thud of some tremendous blow ; and a 
deep sigh from the victim quickly followed. 

“ Marry this kind man,” continued her companion, 
actuated by the same strange spirit which impels an 
assassin, who, aghast at the agony he beholds and 
the ruin he has wrought, and also doubting his own 
strength, strikes blow after blow. “ Marry him. He 
has every confidence in you and in himself. He loves 
you, that is clear.” And in response to a questioning 
look from Manuela, he added: “Yes, he has proved 
his love ! ” 

“ How ? By wishing to marry me when I am so 
poor and he so rich ? Do you not think that there 
are worse things than poverty ? ” 

“By taking upon himself, my child,” answered 
Morton, ignoring her last question, “the charge of 
your future happiness. Others have not had equal 
courage. They have admired you, coveted your hand, 
doubtless, but have been unable to ask for it because 
unable to accept with it the various duties and respon- 
sibilities entailed by such a step. The chains of matri- 
mony — for chains they are, no matter what name the 
infatuation of the moment may bestow upon them — 


88 


REMORSE. 


are not for such men as I mean. If they loved you, 
it was with a love of the imagination — the only love 
of which the men whom you meet here are capable, 
for they are artists of one kind or another. Distrust 
these people, my child. At the feet of the woman 
whom they pretend to adore they are composing some 
novel or poem. They make her smile or weep, that 
they may draw inspii-ation from her joy or her tears — 
that they may better understand the working of this 
human machine which it is their task to move. They 
experiment in private, that is to say, before they come 
before the public. They would give, to find an ori- 
ginal episode, an unexpected d'enoixment^ all that they 
love in the world — or rather, I should say, all who 
love them ; for they themselves love nothing whatever, 
as I have told you. They reject happiness as common- 
place and vulgar. They accept any amount of devo- 
tion, and give none in return. All that thrills and 
subjugates others freezes them. Their passions are 
protected by an armor of selfishness, indifference, cu- 
riosity, and disdain.” 

“ Enough ! ” cried Manuela, starting to her feet. 
‘‘Enough ! ” 

“ I am describing to you a type of man which I 
know well and thoroughly,” continued Maurice^ feign- 
ing not to understand that she was entreating mercy. 
“ These are the men that you are likely to meet in 
your aunt’s salon, and I congratulate you that you 
have hitherto succeeded in avoiding them ; for they 
would find you the most charming of women, and 
would seek to make you believe their superficial im- 


REMORSE. 


89 


pressions to be tbe most profound sentiments. Per- 
haps among them some selfish coward will ask of you 
the supreme sacrifice of self, which women sometimes 
make, and which men receive with contempt. Others 
again, less vile and more logical or more courageous, 
may prefer to open your eyes rather than see you 
throw yourself away. Such are your real friends ; 
but do not allow your gratitude to go the length of 
marrying one — even the best of them — if he were ca- 
pable of such an act of folly. The liberty which he 
laid down at your feet with enthusiasm one day, he 
would regret the next — ^he would regret forever. He 
would soon learn to hate you for having robbed him 
of it ; for without it an artist is nothing. He is dead 
to his art, dead to glory and ambition. And do not 
imagine that the charms of a domestic fireside can 
make any amends or offer any solace. He will know 
for evermore only despair at having allowed his wings 
to be cut, and the nameless misery of failing in the 
production of anything worth remembering, because 
he has overthrown the cup which held the source of 
his genius and inspiration. IsTo ; family joys are not 
for such as these ; for whosoever has drunk of this 
fiery draught finds all others insipid and distasteful. 
It is his chastisement, perhaps, that he is not able to 
throw himself at your feet like the honest man who 
to-day — ” 

During this long harangue, to which she had been 
forced to submit, and which Morton had declaimed 
with a strange mingling of real feeling and almost 
unendurable pedantry — like a man who believes him- 


90 


REMORSE. 


self to be committing a most heroic act, and who tri- 
umphs in his stoicism to such a degree that he <5eases 
to feel the wound in his own heart, or to care for the 
other which he tramples under foot at the same time 
— Manuela had sunk back in her chair and lay as if 
she had fainted ; but when he returned again to the 
praises of M. Walrey, she could no longer control her- 
self, but started up. 

“ I will dispense with your eulogy of that gentle- 
man, monsieur,” she exclaimed, haughtily. “It is 
late ; my aunt will be here directly. Adieu ! ” 

“ Adieu ? Without your informing me — ” 

“ If I intend to profit by your eloquent instruc- 
tions ? As to that I cannot yet say ; be sure, how- 
ever, that I shall never forget them.” 

“That is not what I intended to ask,” replied 
Morton, with some bitterness ; “ but it is best, per- 
haps, that you should not understand. Adieu then. 
Hate me, despise me, if it will make you happy.” 

Happy ! Had he not forever killed happiness, 
youth, and faith — all that there was of good in her 
life and in her soul ? Had she not become, under the 
infiuence of his poisoned, insidious words, a totally 
different woman, who had nothing in common with 
Manuela ? Or, rather, she had become a mere help- 
less corpse, borne on by the pitiless river toward the 
desolate future. She was like Ophelia when Hamlet 
said to her that he was not to be believed. Hot to 
believe — ^to lose all faith and trust ! Is not that the 
end of all — the most absolute and terrible of deaths ? 
And yet the one who had committed this crime, who 


REMORSE. 


91 


liad dealt this blow, said to himself : I have behaved 
nobly. I have sacrificed myself for her honor and 
for her future. One word, and she would have fol- 
lowed me to the ends of the earth ! One word, and 
she would have been mine. And yet I spared her ! ” 
Yes ; so does the hawk in his highest flight spare 
his victim, when, from caprice, disdain, or indiffer- 
ence, he suffers his prey to drop from his hold down 
to the earth below, to linger in hopeless agony, and 
finally to die. 


CHAPTER IX. 

When her aunt entered the salon Manuela was 
alone, her hands tightly clasped before her and her 
distended eyes fixed on vacancy. But the baroness 
paid no heed to this singular attitude, for she merely 
passed across the salon, excusing herself to M. Wal- 
rey, who was with her, and requesting his permission 
to leave him with her niece while she went to lay 
aside her hat and shawl. She grasped at this oppor- 
tunity to grant him a tUe-d-tUe with Manuela, who 
fully understood the manoeuvre, and dreaded an inter- 
view and importunities following so immediately the 
terrible awakening of the last hour, from which each 
nerve in her poor body was still quivering. 

Her dread and repugnance, however, in no degree 
equaled poor Walrey’s cruel embarrassment. He 
stood motionless in the centre of the room, evidently 


92 


REMORSE. 


at a loss to know what to do or say. Manuela saw 
this with a certain dull content, for she drew at once 
the inference that she need fear neither presumption 
nor undue entreaties. To dismiss him, therefore, a 
word or two only would be needful. She consequently 
waited quietly until the moment came that she could 
speak. The poor fellow turned and twisted his hat, 
and his color grew deeper, while he pretended to 
examine a picture, not one tint in which did he dis- 
cern. At last he went toward her. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he began, “ your aunt informed 
me — ” Here he suddenly interrupted himself. “ Good 
heavens ! how pale you are ! ” And in a tone of af- 
fectionate anxiety he continued : “ Are you suffering 
in any way ? ” 

‘‘ Indeed I am ! ” she answered, with a wan smile ; 
‘‘ I have a frightful headache.” 

“ In that case I have certainly chosen a most un- 
fortunate moment to speak to you on a matter of the 
gravest importance — importance to myself, I would 
say. Nevertheless, I venture to ask your attention 
for a few moments ; I will not detain you long. I 
have only just succeeded in gaining courage enough 
to open my lips to you, and were I compelled to wait 
until to-morrow, I should, I am quite sure, relapse once 
more into cowardice. Your aunt, I presume, has in- 
formed you of all that I said to her — ” 

‘‘ Believe me, monsieur,” interrupted Manuela, seek- 
ing refuge like himself in safe commonplaces — “believe 
me when I assure you that I am deeply sensible of the 
very great honor you do me, but — ” 


REMORSE, 


93 


“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” exclaimed M. Wal- 
rey, hastily ; “ but if a refusal be on your lips, I 
entreat you to withhold it for to-day. My dearest 
wish in life is to make you my wife, hut I dare not 
hope for this great blessing, although your aunt has 
kindly encouraged me to regard it as a possibility. 
No, mademoiselle, do not deny me at once. In a 
very few days I must leave for my home — to return 
to Paris, however, at any hour when you shall sum- 
mon me. Now then, when I am ready to leave this 
city, if you will give me your hand, I shall under- 
stand what you wish to say. You shall be quite free 
to withdraw it again, mademoiselle, if you will only 
permit me to feel that it is intended as some little 
encouragement.” 

Mme. Halbronn and her sister entered at this mo- 
ment, and their arrival was hailed by Manuela with 
delight, as she was thereby saved the embarrassment 
of making any reply. The sisters were evidently in- 
tensely cui’ious. M. Walrey spoke of Mile, de Chelles’s 
headache. 

“When a girl looks as she does,” cried Marthe, 
“ she generally betakes herself to darkness, rest, and 
seclusion ! Why, the child looks like a ghost. Go to 
your own room, dear ; you really frighten me ! ” 

Susanne prescribed a certain infusion with great 
earnestness, and her pockets were also full of panaceas 
and receipts. 

It was, indeed, an act of great humanity toward 
Manuela to induce her to retire ; and once in solitude, 
the poor child gave way to a nervous crisis which had 


94 


REMORSE. 


at least one salutary effect, that of opening the sources 
of her tears. 

Manuela’s so-called headache lasted several days, 
during which she was seen by no one except Mme. de 
Clairac, who came twice to take a seat by her bedside, 
and to inform her that M. Walrey came regularly to 
inquire for her, that his solicitude was most touching; 
and she added that she must hasten her recovery, so 
that he would not look upon her as unhealthy — the 
greatest possible fault in the provinces — or what was 
worse, lest he should suppose that she felt a repug- 
nance toward him. “ The poor man,” continued Mme. 
de Clairac, “ keeps saying that if he is really disagree- 
able to you, you have only to tell him so, and he will 
depart in sorrow, but submissive. Good heavens ! that 
would be absurd indeed. But pray remember that a 
positive liking for him is by no means needful. He 
requires nothing of the kind. Only let him adore 
you, my dear ; that is the only privilege for which, as 
yet, he ventures to hope. This modesty and self-dis- 
trust would, were I in your place, prepossess me most 
strongly in his favor. But it is not necessary, I trust, 
to add my persuasions to his. You understand your 
duty. You will not grieve me — ” 

“It really seems to me, my dear aunt,” said 
Manuela, “ that I can only testify my gratitude by 
disembarrassing you of my society as quickly as pos- 
sible ! ” 

And, in truth, Mme. de Clairac would have con- 
sidered her as ungrateful as she was foolish had she 
rejected the advice thrust upon her by all about heiv 


REMORSE. 


95 


and Manuela foresaw that her position in her aunt’s 
house would be more painful than she dared imagine 
should she refuse M. Walrey. Already Mme. de 
Clairac accused her of having inherited from her 
mother an unfortunately romantic disposition. 

‘‘ In this part of the world,” she said, “ you must 
not rely upon a handsome stranger appearing and 
carrying you off. Elopements have gone out of fash- 
ion with guitars and turbans.” 

Finally, she hit on the best method of curing 
Manuela. 

“I have just seen Maurice Morton,” she began 
one day, “ and I told him that you were ill ! ” 

“ And he thinks that it is with grief,” thought the 
poor girl. 

A feeling of pride determined her to make a great 
exertion. She rose, made her toilet, and that same night 
consented to follow the plan laid down for her by Mme. 
de Clairac. She went to the opera and heard “ Faust,” 
to which she had listened a very short time before 
with Maurice. This time M. Walrey occupied the 
same position behind her chair. Each air, each situ- 
ation brought back to her memories which she wished 
to bury forever. The first meeting with the innocent 
Marguerite recalled to her another meeting, as unex- 
pected and decisive, which had also left its sting ; the 
walk in the garden reminded her of other walks under 
the lilacs at Saint-Cloud, during which she was con- 
scious that she too had been swayed by the same 
whirlwind of passion that had tossed poor Gretchen. 
“But, after all,” thought Manuela, “Gretchen was 


96 


REMORSE. 


loved, and I never have been. No, never,” she re- 
peated, while Faust’s victim, seated at her spinning- 
wheel, sang her melancholy plaint : “ No more peace, 
no more joy in this world ; my heart is withered and 
dead ! ” 

Her tears fell slowly ; and whei^ in the church. 
Marguerite, half -fainting, mingles her sobs with the 
menaces of the “Dies Irse,” Manuela said suddenly 
to her aunt, as Goethe’s heroine did to her neighbor, 
“ Your smelling-bottle ! ” 

She felt that she was losing consciousness. What 
was there astonishing in that ? She had been really 
ill. By degrees the music elevated her above herself, 
above her own sorrows and resentments, to that inter- 
mediate sphere whereof she had the key. She con- 
founded the image of Faust with that of Maurice, in 
the vague intoxication produced by music. “Yes,” 
she said, “ Maurice and Faust are one and the same 
— ^the same haughty souls, insatiable and curious, 
seeking everywhere the divine honey of the ideal 
without caring for the flower which gives it ; con- 
demned to isolation by force of their own greatness — 
by the fatality of genius, in fact.” She had been the 
atom on his highway, the gilded atom, which sinks 
again into obscurity when the sunlight is withdrawn. 
Ah, well ! she would be content with this fate — con- 
tent with having loved Maurice Morton with an un- 
reciprocated passion. 

YHiile the tumult of sweet sounds made her reason 
in this way, M. Halbronn, who for some few moments 
had been persistently watching a certain loge grUl^e, 


REMORSE. 


97 


said to Manuela, handing her the glass : If I am not 
much mistaken, my fair cousin, it is Morton whom 
I see up there by the side of a very pretty woman. 
Look, and tell me what you think.” 

Then turning toward his wife : “ It is little Lini,” 
he said — “ a rising star and an absolute wonder. She 
will eclipse Therese ! That scamp of a Morton ! ” Not 
a muscle in Manuela’s face quivered — she felt that 
Marthe’s curious and malicious eyes were upon her. 
It' seemed to her that she was gradually turning to 
stone, and she felt her fan shiver in her hand. Ma- 
nuela fancied that she had drunk to the dregs the cup 
presented by Morton ; but she was mistaken. One 
drop bitterer than gall was at the bottom, and this she 
must now swallow. All women will appreciate and 
understand the unexpected strength which came to 
her assistance, born of her indignation and disgust. 

“ So,” whispered the same bad spirit which had 
tempted poor Gretchen to crime — “so you mean to 
mourn the loss of a shadow, while he forgets your 
very existence with a creature like that ! Prove to 
him rather that you can live without him, that you 
can forget him in your turn, and that others may love 
you if he does not.” 

The next day, when M. Walrey came to take leave 
of her, her resolution was taken — a resolution which 
arose from wounded pride, and a faint hope that Mor- 
ton, however occupied he might appear to be, would 
feel a pang at seeing her consoled so quickly. 

“ You will not be long gone, I suppose ? ” said 
Mme. Halbronn. 

5 


98 


REMORSE. 


‘‘ I do not know,” answered Walrey, in a low voice, 
in whicli no one except Manuela could read the mingled 
constraint and apprehension. As he spoke he bowed 
before her. Simply, without hesitation, but also with- 
out a smile, the young girl held out her hand. A joy 
so keen almost stifled him, and he could hardly mur- 
mur “Thanks.” He pressed that slender cold hand 
which she deliberately placed in his ; then suddenly, 
horrifled at his own audacity, he allowed it to drop 
from his clasp. 

If it suffices that a man should only think himself 
happy to become so in reality, Fran9ois Walrey was 
for that evening the happiest of men. 

The marriage took place not long afterward, but 
this haste was by no means due to the entreaties of 
the bridegroom. He would have been as patient as 
Manuela desired, for the vague promise that she would 
some day be his was in itself a very great favor. But 
Mme. de Clair ac declared that her niece, who, she said, 
was the very personification of reason and common- 
sense, did not wish to condemn him to a prolonged 
engagement, which, in view of the distance between 
Paris and the centre of his business affairs, would be 
difficult and even injurious to his most serious inter- 
ests. 

Manuela in fact had a mad desire to leave the 
city where Maurice lived, the house where she ran 
the daily risk of meeting him, and even to escape 
from Mme. de Clairac, although her aunt overwhelmed 
her with maternal affection, now that she was sure of 
not keeping her very long under her roof. Besides, 


REMORSE. 


99 


M. Walrey was insupportable in the role of a lover, 
in which she had previously installed another ; he 
played his part awkwardly, and would improve un- 
doubtedly when he was advanced to the position of a 
husband. Manuela’s complete ignorance of all the 
privileges conferred by this title contributed to her 
desire to have done with the poetry of courtship and 
try the prose of matrimony. She therefore without 
hesitation fixed the day for the marriage just a month 
off ; and this brief delay passed like a dream, so occu- 
pied was she with the customary shopping, with con- 
gratulations from the indifferent circle about her, and 
with the constant repetition of all those commonplaces 
which are employed to reconcile a young gu’l — ^by ex- 
citing her ambition, her vanity, and the worst side of 
her whole nature — to that which is called “ a sensible 
marriage.” 

From this dream, always agitated and often pain- 
ful, Manuela did not awaken until she was in the train 
which bore her the evening after her marriage toward 
her new destiny. We do not speak, of course, of any 
mental awakening ; for, judging by appearances, M. 
Walrey might have thought her asleep, buried as she - 
was in the corner amid her furs and traveling-rugs. 

“ Poor little thing ! ” he thought ; ‘‘ she is utterly 
worn out ! ” And vdth tender care he drew more 
closely about her all the wraps with which he had 
plentifully provided himself for the journey at this 
most rigorous season of the year. 

The shaded lamp threw a discreet light on that 
young head, and the husband looked with absolute 


100 


REMORSE. 


devotion, respect, and tenderness, on Manuela’s fair 
pale face and closed eyes. Had slie at that moment 
lifted her heavy lids, she would certainly have ex- 
perienced a pang of remorse ; for how could she pre- 
vent herself from thinking of the journey to Italy, 
which, in imagination, she had so often made with 
Maurice ? But it was toward the north that her train 
was rushing at full speed, through the fierce cold of 
the dark night. Not a star glittered in the sky ; 
through the frost-covered windows noithing was to be 
seen except dark masses of shadow, and then an open 
space surrounded by a low hedge. There hardly 
seemed room between the low black sky and the black 
earth for the long feathery smoke which curled and 
quivered from the locomotive. The train dashed on, 
stopping at rare intervals, only to go on with a sharp 
whistle and at greater speed. Manuela compared her- 
self to Psyche and to Andromeda, borne away with 
bewildering fleetness by some bellowing monster tow- 
ard the abyss of the unknown ; and the nearer she 
got to this unknown, the more inexpressibly dreary be- 
came the scene, imbued with the very spirit of winter. 
Suddenly the boundless plain was illuminated by vivid 
scattered lights — enormous furnaces with red reflec- 
tions thrown in wide circles, or flaming up with fierce, 
cruel vigor. More and more of these furnaces ap- 
peared, until the train seemed to be surrounded by a 
circle of fire. Manuela uttered an involuntary ex- 
clamation. “ Is this Dante’s hell ? ” she gasped. 

“ That is an unfortunate word to select to describe 
your new home, the country where you are to live,” 


REMORSE. 


101 


said her husband, laughing. “ We will do our best 
to make this Inferno agreeable to you. As for my- 
self, it seems to me that I breathe freely nowhere but 
here, in this atmosphere of energetic toil. Each one 
of those fires is the centre of incessant activity. Those 
are the blast-furnaces, which never cool down, day or 
night. My workmen, however, have nearly all of 
them a holiday, to do honor to you. But here we 
are. Wrap yourself up well ! ” 

Manuela, as she stepped from the train, was aware 
that her foot sank into a sticky substance, which 
seemed to her by the light of the lantern like char- 
coal dust softened into a thick mud. 

‘‘Alas ! ” said M. Walrey, philosophically — in fact 
he preferred that soil to all others — “ we must make 
up our minds, I suppose, to be up to our ears in this 
stuff all winter ! ” 

A carriage was awaiting them outside of the sta- 
tion — a large, handsome carriage, drawn by two horses 
stronger than they were elegant. “Are all well at 
the house, Quentin?” asked M. Walrey, addressing 
the coachman. “ My mother — ” 

“ Madame has not retired. She waited to receive 
monsieur and the young lady,” answered the stout 
Fleming. 

That madame had not retired was evidently an 
astonishing fact ; for Mme. Walrey, aged and infirm, 
had not been able to make the journey to Paris in 
order to be present at her son’s marriage. She had 
written a letter to Manuela — a letter full of kindness, 
but which indicated a very inferior education. With 


102 


REMORSE. 


this letter came some silver ornaments, antique in 
form and primitive in art — the only ones, she ex- 
plained, which she had ever possessed. “ She had in- 
herited them from her great-grandmother. Perhaps 
none such had ever been seen in Paris.” 

“ When I leave my mother, if it be only for a day, 
I am always anxious,” said M. Walrey, seating him- 
self in the carriage by his wife’s side, “her health 
is so very delicate. You will love her,” he added, 
after a short silence. “At first her utter simplicity 
will astonish you, in spite of my warnings. My moth- 
er was very young when, all at once, her husband’s 
position in life and his surroundings were utterly 
changed ; but she herself never changed, and she was 
wise.” 

The carriage, toiling along through the mud, passed 
in front of a heavy drawbridge, then along huge for- 
tifications, and seemed to be following the border of 
a canal. At the end of about twenty minutes they 
reached large open gates, and entered a vast court 
surrounded by trees. The house presented no dis- 
tinguishing architectural features, being neither cha- 
teau nor villa ; but all the windows — and they were 
as numerous as those of a manufactory — were brill- 
iantly lighted as a token of joy at the arrival of the 
bride. On the steps, leaning on the arm of a servant, 
stood a small slender woman, simply dressed in black. 
She advanced to meet the new-comer, walking with 
evident difiiculty, and said in a low voice, but with a 
strongly-marked local accent : 

“ You are welcome to your own home, my daughter.” 


REMORSE. 


103 


CHAPTER X. 

I]sr the full light of day, the following morning, 
Manuela could form a clear idea of the place in which 
the rest of her days were to be passed. The house, 
which in that neighborhood was looked upon as abso- 
lutely sumptuous, seemed sprinkled over with char- 
coal dust, which added to the dreariness of the slate- 
colored marble which abounds in that country, and 
is employed for all building purposes. The very 
gravel in the courtyard was black in consequence of 
the close vicinity of the works, which stood on the 
other side of the road, so near that, from his own 
doorway, M. Walrey could keep a strict eye upon his 
operatives. The narrow, turbid river Sambre, run- 
ning between two straight banks covered with tall 
dried reeds, was the water which Manuela, in the 
darkness of the previous night, had mistaken for a 
canal. All along the margin stood huge blast-fur- 
naces, rolling-mills, forges, ropewalks, marble-yards — 
manufactories, in short, of all kinds, but principally 
metallurgic. Iron and coal covered the land in huge 
piles in every direction. As far as the eye could 
reach stretched a line of low, smoky buildings with 
gigantic chimneys, from which huge volumes of smoke 
poured and spread like a pall over the whole land- 
scape. The country round about was peculiarly flat 
and uninteresting, and almost bare of vegetation. 
Nature herself seeming to be in revolt against the 


104 


REMORSE. 


miasma arising from human industries. Countless 
transports, loaded with slate, oil, and beet-roots, moved 
clumsily and slowly over the turbid waters, every foot 
of which was utilized and lashed by innumerable 
wheels of mills and machine shops. hTight, in spite 
of all the sinister light shed by the various forges, 
was preferable to the dreary monotony of the scene 
on which Manucla looked through a thick fog the 
morning after her arrival. 

‘‘ My beehive is not the gayest sight in the world; 
that I really must admit,” said M. Walrey, laying his 
hand on his wife’s shoulder, as she stood at the win- 
dow with a look of hopeless consternation on her pale 
face ; but come inside and look at the bees at work 
— ^they are better than the buildings ! ” He would 
have liked to carry Manuela off at once on a tour of 
inspection ; but his mother interfered, with the sug- 
gestion that his wife had best examine the house first. 

Here is her kingdom, and yours is yonder, in 
the works,” said the old lady, turning toward Walrey. 
She did not use the familiar French thou, and her 
Flemish you would have sounded a little cold and 
constrained but for the tender and admiring inflection 
of the voice that uttered it. 

Mme. Walrey was unable to comprehend the pos- 
sibility of the existence of any man more accom- 
plished or more lovable than her son. When he con- 
fided to her his hopes, now realized, her first words 
were : ‘‘ How she must love you ! ” Manuela’s rare 
beauty had neither dazzled nor surprised her. Of 
course Ms wife must he perfectly beautiful. Tin- 


REMORSE. 


105 


doubtedly she would have preferred charms of a dif- 
ferent type — hair possibly like threads of gold, eyes 
as blue as forget-me-nots, like one of Hemling’s vir- 
gins. Her own head, now so carefully covered, was 
once crowned by blonde braids ; her cheeks, now so 
pale, were once flushed like Bengal roses ; and her 
husband had proudly called her the good old Flemish 
type. But if this brunette had the Flemish virtues 
— the solid virtues of a good wife and good manager 
— she would be satisfied. On this point, however, the 
mother had not dared to question her son. Mme. Wal- 
rey, rustic as she was, was thoroughly refined in all her 
instincts. Although she had never spoken a word on 
the subject, she was perfectly well aware of the mo- 
tives of her son in not marrying ; and, while pleased 
at his kind consideration for herself, she yet suffered 
at the thought that her son was less happy than he 
might have been with a companion near his own age 
— a wife and the mother of his children. Of course, 
if he had suddenly changed his ideas and intentions, 
it must be because he had encountered absolute per- 
fection. Had not Fran9ois always been sensible, pru- 
dent, and self -controlled ? The poor woman had no 
acquaintance with those vertigoes which often so sud- 
denly disturb the most equable and thoroughly-poised 
natures. The first misgiving assailed Mme. Walrey 
as she showed her daughter-in-law over the house. 
At first she initiated her into all the mysteries of the 
kitchen and offices, the bake-house, cellars, and laun- 
dry, where she exhibited, in all their minutiae, the ex- 
cessive order and exquisite cleanliness which offer so 


106 


REMORSE. 


strong a contrast, in these northern manufacturing 
districts, to the extraordinary dirt and dinginess of 
the exterior. To her great disappointment, the young 
wife hardly noticed the shining coppers, or the white 
tables, scrubbed and scoured to excess ; or the cook- 
ing-utensils, arranged with a symmetry which nearly 
amounted to elegance — articles that were never used 
being kept in equally beautiful condition. The most 
ordinary buffets shone like mirrors. 

In order to appear to be properly interested, Manu- 
ela asked the use of utensils which Mme. Walrey said 
to herself ought to be familiar to the mistress of an 
establishment in any and every country. “ All that I 
have heard of Parisians must be true,” thought the 
good lady ; “ but, after all, my son’s wife is not more 
than half a Frenchwoman ! ” But when she wished 
to have her opinion as to making a certain kind of 
pastry, and Manuela showed the most utter and de- 
plorable inexperience, Mme. Walrey said to herself : 
“ Who, when I am gone, will make those fruit-tarts 
of which Fran9ois is so fond ? ” And, with a kind 
smile, she said aloud : “ I will teach you to prepare 
some of our Flemish dishes, and you must show me 
those of your country.” 

“ I am very awkward,” murmured Manuela, terri- 
fied at this threatened apprenticeship. At the same 
time she remembered that she had been forced to say 
the same thing more than once to Mme. de Clairac ; 
and the feeling of her utter incapacity in every po- 
sition in life humiliated her once more. 

The servants watched the young queen who had 


REMORSE. 


107 


come to reign over them, and who hardly vouchsafed 
a glance at the domestic treasures which were dis- 
played before her, and could, unmoved, behold the 
snowy piles of linen, fragrant with lavender, filling 
the huge monumental chests of drawers. “ She must 
be as cold as a stone ! ” muttered the servants. 

‘‘ Hoav many times in the year do you intend to 
have the great wash?” asked Mme. Walrey of her 
daughter-in-law. ‘‘ I only have it once in six months,” 
she added with pride, “ and then not from necessity. 
We have enough linen to let the wash go for several 
years ! ” 

“ It shall be just as you think best, my dear moth- 
er,” answered Manuela, submissively. 

“ But it is not for me to decide anything here now. 
I should like to have your opinion — ” 

“ But I have none. Pray keep the management 
of the house, will you not ? ” 

‘‘What an idea ! ” exclaimed Mme. Walrey, scan- 
dalized at this deliberate abnegation of a duty which 
she herself regarded as sacred ; while at the same 
time she was much flattered at this proof of confidence. 
“ But what would a woman do if she should relinquish 
her post as mistress of her house ? How would you 
spend your time ? Here you will have very few pleas- 
ures outside of your home,” she added, seeing an anxi- 
ous look on Manuela ; for she had often heard that 
Parisian air made all the women worldly. They en- 
tered the dining-room for the mid-day dinner — a most 
substantial repast, preceded by a soup — wherein was 
displayed all the skill of the Flemish cuisine. M. 


108 


REMORSE. 


Walrey did the honors of each course with so much 
gayety that Manuela was astonished ; for she had 
never seen him except when abashed by the presence 
of strangers. He was now in his element, laughing 
and talking in perfect satisfaction, and eating as heart- 
ily as was needful to sustain his robust frame. He 
felt at home once more among the interests and habits 
of his daily life ; and an unprejudiced looker-on would 
at once have decided that he gained much by being 
replaced in his frame. He was just the host for this 
simple house — somewhat stolid and calm, and offering 
a safe shelter and support to any one who was not of 
an exacting nature, or who had not raised, in oppo- 
sition to the healthy realities of life, an ideal object 
of comparison whose pretended superiority annulled 
and crushed all else. 

The room where they dined was the one usually 
occupied by mother and son. Spacious and lofty, it 
had a floor of tiles, which were made in that part of 
the country. The walls were decorated with plaques 
of the same material, ornamented with arabesques 
and designs of all kinds. An enormous cast-iron 
stove projected from the chimney well into the room, 
while around this chimney were hung green and gilt 
cages filled with birds, trophies from the chase, pipes, 
and arms. The windows were crowded with flowers. 
Before one was a desk, and at the other a work- 
table. 

‘‘ This was my place,” said Mme. de Walrey, “and 
that is where Fran9ois sat. How many winter nights 
we have spent here — he in verifying his accounts, and 


REMORSE. 


109 


I in knitting his vests ! ” She stifled an involuntary- 
sigh. 

“ But now we have a salon, my wife’s salon / ” in- 
terrupted Walrey, eagerly hurrying forward to throw 
open the door of the next room, of which the furni- 
ture was all new and sent from Paris, as he proceeded 
to point out to Manuela. Perhaps she would not have 
suspected this, so odd were the taste and judgment 
displayed. 

“Well?” said Mme. Walrey, expecting some en- 
thusiastic expression of admiration. “ Do you not 
recognize your own taste ? ” 

Her son had confided to her that during all the 
time of his stay in Paris he had carefully noted every 
expression of admiration uttered by Manuela, every 
opinion she advanced on the subject of furnishing, 
making a note of all things she considered pretty, and 
as soon as possible buying them. ^Nevertheless, the 
salon was a mere heterogeneous assemblage of heresies 
against the laws of good taste and elegance. 

Walrey saw at once that there was a mistake 
somewhere, notwithstanding all the pains he had 
taken. 

“ I have committed some folly or oversight,” he 
said, disconcerted by Manuela’s silence. “ I am not 
clever in such things. I have misunderstood you, I 
suppose, but you will rectify and change as you 
please.” 

The girl felt that she had been less than gracious, 
and thanked him cordially; but it was too late. Wal- 
rey had been deeply wounded by that moment, brief 


110 


REMORSE. 


as it was, of hesitation ; and his mother had suffered 
even more than himself. 

The servants in their Sunday clothes, neat as pins, 
were standing together ; and in their presence their 
old mistress handed to her daughter-in-law, as a token 
of her abdication of all authority, the bunch of keys 
which she had so long worn at her side. This little 
scene, prepared in advance, of course fell as flat as 
the splendors of that famous salon, and this time from 
Walrey’s fault. ‘‘Good heavens !” he exclaimed, a 
little crossly, not unwilling to wreak on some one the 
annoyance caused by his own disappointment ; “ don’t 
burden her now with all that iron. We are going to 
the works ! ” 

Manuela was only too thankful to escape from 
this homely atmosphere of household cares, which she 
began to find very oppressive. “ In the works,” she 
thought, “amid all his employes, whose benefactor 
and absolute ruler he is, my husband will be a differ- 
ent man, and of more importance than elsewhere.” 
She was as yet ignorant that in those workshops of 
Vulcan man is a mere atom ; for there is nothing 
great but machinery, which crushes, cuts, and grinds, 
perforating a colossal mass of iron as if it were a 
bundle of rushes. All human energy and ability are 
blotted out before brute strength, which takes the 
place of myriads of human arms. 

When Manuela entered the works, she for a time 
saw nothing but a monstrous hammer kneading an in- 
candescent mass, and huge devouring jaws, which ab- 
sorbed the ore by wagon-loads, reducing it speedily 


REMORSE. 


Ill 


to a river of molten flame. The terrible monotonous 
play of the cylinders passing over and over the red 
iron, stretching it in its malleable state as if it were 
a human being subjected to torture, fascinated her. 
Glowing masses were thrown to and fro, not touching 
each other, but emitting showers of flery sparks which 
fell like scarlet rain. It was some little time before 
Manuela was able to control her nervous terror enough 
to see that enormous tongs, managed at the risk of 
their lives by rows of black human ants, were the 
medium by which these incandescent blocks were con- 
veyed from the furnace to the untiring rollers. All 
these Cyclops were half naked ; on their brows and 
breasts were drops of inky sweat. Some of them, to 
protect their faces, were masked, which added to their 
strange appearance. They moved to and fro without 
cessation, breathing the intense heat as if they were 
salamanders. The very ground was hot under their 
feet, and the air from the forge whistled around them. 

‘‘Well, what do you think of this?” asked M. 
Walrey, with a satisfled air. 

“ I think that the only difference in the lot of your 
workmen from that of souls condemned to perdition 
is the drop of water, which Satan refuses,” said Ma- 
nuela, as she pointed to several buckets so arranged 
that the laborers could refresh themselves without any 
waste of time. 

“You exaggerate the labor and discomforts, and 
do not take into consideration the fact that habit makes 
all the difference,” answered Walrey, carelessly. He 
exacted nothing of his men that he could not himself 


112 


REMORSE. 


have performed. His physical strength was second in 
no degree to that of the laborers. At the same time 
he had devoted himself to the acquisition of scientific 
knowledge, so that he was not only a superior me- 
chanic and a skillful inventor, but he was also a stoker 
and a blacksmith of practical experience. His hands 
were familiar with the rough tools, and more than one 
inexperienced youth had received from him valuable 
instruction, as well as reproofs for his ignorance. 

‘‘You see,” resumed Walrey, pointing out to his 
wife a group of children playing cards behind a wag- 
on — “ you see that it is not difficult to become accus- 
tomed to this place.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried Manuela — “ children 
here ! ” 

The small apprentices were thin and slender, and 
their hair and skins were so blackened by the fine 
charcoal- dust that their teeth and eyes glittered by 
contrast with startling brilliancy. It was difficult to 
distinguish the ragged little wretches one from an- 
other, or to believe that they had any individual per- 
sonality. They were one and all alike consumptive- 
looking, alike dried up over the same brazier. 

“Pshaw ! the imps have nothing to complain of,” 
said M. Walrey. “ They are compelled to go to school 
two hours every day. Their fathers never received 
the same amount of education, and, after all, this edu- 
cation is the greatest privilege I can bestow upon 
them ; and, if they do not so consider it, it is not mv 
fault ! ” 

One of the little fellows now came forward, and. 


REMORSE. 


113 


on behalf of the Works, offered a huge bouquet to 
Mme. Francis Walrey. The effect produced by these 
poor, pale, dusty flowers and such surroundings was 
singular in the extreme. 

“ Take them away ! ” said Manuela ; “ take them 
into the fresh air. Do you not see that they are dy- 
ing here ? ” 

M. Walrey laughed ; then he summoned a fore- 
man, addressed to him some questions in regard to 
what had taken place during his absence, and made 
especial inquiries about a terrible accident which had 
happened the night before. One of the workmen had 
been hideously burned, and would be for some time 
unable to work. “Was the physician sent for at 
once?” asked the master. “Yes, sir; and madame 
sent some linen and provisions.” 

“ It will be well for you, my child,” said M. Wal- 
rey to his wife, “ to go and see this poor fellow. The 
duties that were once my mother’s now devolve upon 
you.” 

“ And I will gladly take her place,” she answered. 
“ Charity must have much to do here.” 

“ Hot charity in the sense of almsgiving. Let me 
warn you on that point. A certain care for the wel- 
fare of these people is all I ask of you. We are 
rough people, and we require rough treatment. I am 
looked upon among my men as excessively strict, and 
I try to deserve the reputation. One could obtain 
nothing from them if one did not insist upon it. You 
must learn to look upon them with my eyes, or else 
you must have nothing to do with them.” 


114 


REMORSE. 


Manuela thought that these words sounded very 
hard. The head of a great manufactory of any kind 
very often seems a tyrant who keeps his subjects in 
undue subjection. Too little attention is paid to the 
great responsibility which weighs upon him, to the 
difficulty of governing an army of employes always 
more deeply imbued with the idea of the duties of their 
master toward themselves than of their own toward 
him. 

Meanwhile Manuela, accompanied by an old stoker 
who had been deputed to do the honors of the estab- 
lishment, had turned away from the black labyrinth 
followed by the admiring eyes of the workmen. The 
unexpected apparition of her beauty and elegance 
aroused a certain pleasure even in the roughest of these 
men. This fairy, passing so lightly and gracefully 
through the din and the smoke of their daily life, was 
as acceptable to their eyes as a ray of sunlight ; the 
rustle of silken skirts was like music to their ears, and 
the scent of violets exhaled from her garments re- 
freshed them like a fresh spring breeze. 

“ Is she not a pretty little bird ? ” said one of the 
men. ‘‘ Just look at her ! she flutters over the ground; 
she hardly touches it with the tips of her toes ! ” 

The comrade to whom these words were addressed 
made no reply ; and yet he was more attentive and 
more strongly impressed than any one of the others. 
He was a taU, square-shouldered fellow, with a face 
which was at once thoughtful, indolent, and ironical, 
giving the idea rather of a “ Bohemian ” than of a me- 
chanic. He was a perfect blonde, and his beard, which 


REMORSE. 


115 


had evidently been combed with care, fell in rippling 
waves over a blue shirt which was infinitely cleaner 
than those of his neighbors, and the sleeves of which, 
turned up to the elbows, showed muscular arms, and 
arms, too, which were nearly guiltless of the soil of 
labor. He had made for himself an original coiffure. 
A scarlet handkerchief was twisted around his fore- 
head, and into this he had thrust the ii-on bar with 
which the liquid metal is stirred. Leaning with his 
back against a post, he seemed entirely occupied with 
the effect he produced — which effect was, to be sure, 
extremely picturesque. 

“ Look at Rolling-Stone standing for his picture ! ” 
said one urchin, whose duties were to open and shut 
the door of the furnace, with the aid of pulleys, when 
huge bundles of fagots were thrown in. 

Manuela up to this time had taken no notice of 
that carefully-prepared attitude ; and Rolling-Stone’s 
vanity was unquestionably wounded, for women gen- 
erally lavished more than one glance upon him. 

This conquering hero had, however, his hour of 
triumph. Manuela, absorbed in the explanations which 
her guide was giving her, had by this time reached 
the enormous crucible wherein was going on the pro- 
cess of refining. Heaped up below was the vitrified 
bed of dross which escaped through certain channels 
arranged for the purpose. The lady advanced fear- 
lessly, when a scorching flash full in her face caused 
her to retreat hastily. The stoker had thrown open a 
door without giving her any warning. Within this 
door she saw a huge fire blazing and roaring with an 


116 


REMORSE. 


intolerable glare. A rain of fiery sparks fell in every 
direction, and Manuela in her bewilderment and terror 
started back, stumbled against a heap of refuse, and 
in her fright would have fallen to the ground if an 
outstretched ai*m had not grasped her. This naked 
arm, covered with strange mysterious signs tattooed 
upon the skin, held her longer perhaps than was strict- 
ly necessary. Disengaging herself hastily, Manuela 
examined the man who had rendered her this assist- 
ance, and then thanked him with great coldness. 

At the same moment Walrey, who had lingered 
behind to give some directions, hurried up anxiously, 
having heard his wife's faint scream. 

“ It is nothing, monsieur, nothing,” explained the 
old stoker. “ Madame made a misstep, but the Amer- 
ican prevented her from falling.” 

“ Will you believe it ? ” said Manuela, in a low 
voice — “ I have known that man ? I have seen him 
long ago, and very far from here ! ” 

“ What man ? Ah, I understand. The American ! 
There is nothing so strange in that, after all ; for 
where has he not been ? It is precisely for that reason 
that his comrades call him Rolling-Stone. An ex- 
tremely inefficient workman he is too ! ” added M. 
Walrey, as he turned away with his wife ; “an idler, 
full of foolish ambitious dreams ; a diseased sheep 
that may infect my whole flock. He has been dis- 
missed from situation after situation, and I shall un- 
doubtedly soon be forced to follow the general exam- 
ple and pack him off. If he would only confine him- 
self to idleness and doing nothing ! But he is danger- 


REMORSE. 


117 


ous, very dangerous ! Come, my child, let us go ; 
you have been here too long, and must be very weary.” 

“Yes, I am tired,” answered his wife, “but I have 
been very much interested.” 

During this time the American was saying to the 
old stoker : “ She knew me ! I saw perfectly well 
that she knew me ! ” 

“ Go along with your nonsense ! Do you mean to 
repeat again that your famous lady on board the ship 
is the master’s wife ? Take care, young man, lest you 
make a mistake in some of your extraordinary advent- 
ures ! ” 

The tall, good-looking fellow gave a great shake 
of his blonde locks. 

“ The fact is, however,” said a young workman in 
the mill, who had been a quiet looker-on at the scene — 
“ the fact is that the American put his arm around the 
lady’s waist — a piece of good luck, stoker, that will 
not come to either you or to me, I fancy, in a great 
hurry ! And this is what he has got by idling about 
instead of being at work like the rest of us.” 

“ Oh ! if there are any profits to be made by idling, 
the American will get them, be sure of that,” an- 
swered the old stoker with a laugh. 

“ He thinks and reflects more than he idles. Father 
Fearless,” said one of the American’s partisans. 

“ Do not fake the trouble to defend me, comrade,” 
interrupted the accused, with some bitterness in his 
voice. “ It is a great crime for people in our class of 
life to think. We have the right to make use of but 
one of the tools with which we are endowed by Ha- 


118 


REMORSE. 


ture — the strong right arm,” and he extended his own. 
“ Those among us,” he continued, “ who have neither 
heart nor brain may submit to this ; but he who has 
anything here,” and he struck his head with a theatri- 
cal gesture — 

“ That something there has given you a vast deal 
of trouble in your life,” said Father Fearless, “ and I 
advise you to get rid of it as soon as possible.” 

“ By what right did he marry that woman ! ” cried 
the American, in a paroxysm of affected fury, without 
paying any attention to the stoker’s words. 

“ Whom do you mean by he — the master ? ” 

“Yes, the master, if you choose to call him so! 
By what right, I say, did the blockhead marry this 
woman ? ” 

“Do you mean that she ought to have married 
you ? By the right of his money, I suppose. Pretty 
women are made to be the wives of rich men.” 

“That is true,” said Rolling-Stone, with infinite 
disdain; “ everything is for sale in this world.” And 
then he began a rhodomontade against the abuse of 
capital, against capital itself — a tirade which had not 
even the merit of originality. 

“Look at him!” muttered Father Fearless ; “he 
is now well started on his high horse. Go to your 
work, you idiots ! ” he shouted to the crowd who had 
gathered; “don’t imitate the idleness of. this good- 
for-nothing, who only knows how to talk ! ” 

“Very possibly ; but he knows how to act as well, 
as you will some day see,” said the American, in a 
voice of prophecy. 


REMORSE, 


119 


Some of the workmen turned away with a sneer 
and a laugh or a shrug of the shoulders ; they were 
accustomed to his menaces and his boasts ; but some 
of the younger men listened to him with an air of re- 
spect, convinced that to have a well-hung tongue, con- 
tempt for one’s position in life, and a good opinion of 
one’s self, showed great cleverness and intellect. 


CHAPTER XL 

Wheit they reached the highway which ran past 
the works she had come to visit, Manuela asked her 
husband to tell her all he knew of Rolling-Stone’s 
story. 

I can only say,” he answered, that he is an utter 
scapegrace, of a false and perverted spirit. He has 
learned to regard his immeasurable haughtiness as 
honorable pride, and to look upon his various absurdi- 
ties as so many indications of superior wisdom. The 
only possible excuse that can be found for him is his 
birth. His mother was a factory girl, without man- 
ners or principles, but very pretty ; he inherits her 
beauty. His father was a wealthy glass-founder be- 
longing to an excellent country family ; but the father 
had nothing to do with the boy — neither cared for his 
education nor his maintenance — on the ground of his 
mother’s licentiousness.” 

“Surely,” interrupted Manuela, “his excuses are 
great — ” 

“ Less great than you imagine ; for, as is often the 


120 


REMORSE. 


case, assistance came from an unexpected quarter. An 
honest workman, a friend of my father’s, came for- 
ward to aid the mother and son. And, in truth, at 
this very time this is the reason why I give the 
young man employment. Without allowing himself 
to he discouraged by the ingratitude of the wretched 
woman whom he had lifted out of the mud, this good 
fellow took care of her child, educated him, and even 
gave him his name — a name which had been always 
highly respected ; for the man whom you have seen 
this morning bears the name of Pierre Lieven. This 
name is rarely heard, however, since he has so many 
sobriquets. There are some people in whose nature 
a devotion to others is an incurable disease. This 
poor father by adoption was one of them. Fortu- 
nately, he died before he was thoroughly disgusted 
with the result of his labors. Pierre was at that 
time still a very poor apprentice ; but, as he was pas- 
sionately fond of study, good old Lieven, who was 
always ready to defend the youth, was in the habit of 
saying : ‘You see, he can’t be lazy ; it is simply that 
his mind soars above mechanical labor ; he is always 
poring over a book ! ’ In reality this fondness for 
reading in the youth was an occasion for great pride 
to the old man, who himself hardly knew his letters, 
and therefore paid little heed to the books with which 
the boy occupied himself, and the youth before long 
became imbued with socialistic ideas. With these 
and little else he started off to America, whence he 
soon returned to preach them to my workmen, and 
instill into them his pernicious theories. A certain 


REMORSE. 


121 


eloquence with which he has been endowed by Nature 
enables him to do an infinite deal of harm.” 

“ But if he is sincere ? ” said Manuela. 

“ Sincere or not,” answered her husband, hastily, 
“those persons who are so much in earnest with their 
Utopian schemes, that they induce weaker natures to 
accept their absurdities as possibilities, ought to he 
treated as madmen and shut up as such. When this 
young fellow was almost a child, among dur work- 
men were several — Devorans and others — who had 
worked in nearly every town in France, and who had 
gathered together and preserved with great care cer- 
tain newspapers and magazines, the debris of old li- 
braries. Pierre was attracted toward these men, bor- 
rowed from them their heaps of literature that was 
even then old-fashioned, and imbibed a quantity of 
ideas and notions which he by no means understood, 
hut which he found very charming. He became a 
Fourierite, when all the rest of the world had learned 
to laugh at the theory.” 

Manuela asked what it was to he a Fourierite, and 
M. Walrey gave her a brief and sarcastic resumk, of 
the doctrine, which was in itself by-gone, although it 
still served as the basis for doctrines much more re- 
cent and equally dangerous, such as the regeneration 
of the human race, and the abolition of capital and of 
all social institutions which place the least constraint 
on human passions — passions which have in them- 
selves nothing reprehensible, and which are bad only 
because of the arbitrary and detestable laws which 
attempt to control them. 

6 


122 


REMORSE. 


Pierre Lieven was precisely of the temperament 
to be carried away by theories like these. He had 
more curiosity and enthusiasm than real intelligence, a 
roving imagination, a thirst for information, and a 
half knowledge that accounts nothing impossible. 
The impossible arrests at once all cultivated minds, 
and the path they have trodden up to that conviction 
beguiles and tempts them no longer. But persons of 
merely superficial intelligence and culture retain an 
imperishable love for the marvelous, smaller or greater 
in proportion to their ignorance. Not being able, 
however, to find a free exercise for the marvelous in 
their religion, because the philosophers whose pupils 
they boast of being turn into ridicule all that their 
unbelief stigmatizes as superstitious practices, they 
take refuge in Utopia. The most utterly impracti- 
cable social ameliorations, therefore, appeared the sim- 
plest things in the world to Pierre Lieven. He did 
not expect them to be progressive, but sudden, almost 
instantaneous. From the day that he heard the phrase, 
‘ Happiness is the right of mankind,’ he held to that 
as an article of faith. 

Now, happiness, as he understood it, consisted of 
the most thorough disdain of all manual labor — of all 
toil in fact which was mechanical, and which, as he 
phrased it, did not tax the mental faculties — and in a 
certain kind of material enjoyment. He deified his 
indolence, his sensuality, and his insatiable aspira- 
tions toward luxury and pleasure. In his opinion the 
evil did not lie in human nature ; it was the fault of 
society, so deplorably organized that it must be re- 


REMORSE. 


123 


formed at any cost, except that of basely stifling his 
own instincts. In the very imperfect satisfaction of 
these legitimate instincts, therefore, Pierre Li6ven 
wasted the small inheritance bequeathed by the gen- 
erous man whose example and kindness should have 
prevented him from straying from the paths of vir- 
tue ; and, when his purse was empty, he did that 
which Father Lieven had always told him would be 
an act of meanness : he appealed to the paternal sen- 
timents of the libertine to whom he owed his exist- 
ence. This step cost him infinite humiliation, and 
these personal sufferings he made his excuse, as many 
others have done, for additional hate and misanthro- 
py. He declared war, in the name of justice, against 
all who, possessing property, did not share it with 
others, claiming that he had at heart the welfare of 
humanity at large. In reality he cared only for his 
own, although he made such fierce protestations to 
the contrary. 

Concealing his mortification under the mantle of 
pride, he declared that old Europe had had its day ; 
that it was crumbling into dust like other dead things; 
that he was going to find the golden age upon the soil 
where M. Cabet had planted the victorious standard 
of democratic and rational communism. And, in fact, 
he started off with no other luggage than his insignia 
as a Freemason. But in the New World he found 
no more contentment than he had found in Europe. 
Those communistic societies which were formed in 
the United States were founded upon labor, and upon 
a discipline so rigorous that it effaced all individuality 


124 


REMORSE. 


in the interest of the whole. ‘No,’ said Lieven; ‘no, 
I will not submit. It is just the same as it was at the 
works ; I am but the wheel of a machine.’ This pro- 
testation was needless. Before he had time to show 
any symptoms of revolt, the useless drone was dis- 
missed from the hive, and received the pleasing advice 
that in future, before asking for a division by which 
he would profit, he must offer something to divide. 

He wandered about for some time, enjoying his 
liberty combined with equality ; but, as this was also 
at the price of much personal discomfort, the bold 
experimenter wearied of idleness. What he wanted 
was wealth for all — palaces, pleasures of all kinds, 
the gratification of every fancy. If these could not 
be obtained, why should he continue to expatriate 
himself? He returned therefore to his native land, 
bringing back with him only an additional stock 
of boasting words and fanfaronnade, with a convic- 
tion that, having seen everything and tried every- 
thing, he could now play a great role. With this 
idea he began to declaim anew against the slavery of 
the workman, his oppression by the master, and that 
odious commercial system which scorns all equity. 
At the same time he induced his open-mouthed audi- 
ence to believe that the thorny path, on which he had 
gathered naught but dust, was sown thick with em- 
eralds and rubies from El Dorado. Perhaps at that 
distance many things assumed in his eyes a dazzling 
prestige, and he did not realize the falsehood of his 
statements ; but, wherever he was, he always made it 
a rule to be dissatisfied. 


REMORSE. 


125 


While M. Walrey thus endeavored to explain to 
his wife this complex character of idler and insubor- 
dinate, they reached the smoky village, which rose 
from a black soil. Along the shores of the Sambre, 
the round-roofed cottages looked like clusters of poi- 
sonous mushrooms. There was a low tavern, where 
beer flowed from a siphon upon the counter ; next a 
field or two where hops grew in summer on trellises, 
and where at other seasons la crosse, the Flemish cro- 
quet, was played ; then came a succession of small 
houses economically similar, row after row. There was 
no church to be seen — nothing in fact which appealed 
to the soul or the imagination. It was not indeed a 
village, but a hamlet, or rather a faubourg — the sordid 
accessory of the blast-furnaces and rolling-mills. In 
every direction roared and blazed a forge ; huge black 
chimneys shut out the blessed heavens. There was 
not one vestige of rural gayety — no cattle, no poul- 
try, no vegetation, no trees. All this industrial popu- 
lation seemed penned up in a prison, where, contrary 
to the laws of Kature, life was all hard labor, without 
rest or relaxation. 

Such a spectacle gave some color to the complaints 
and exactions of Pierre Lieven. “ The air that one 
breathes here must be fatal to sick brains,” said Ma- 
nuela. 

“I understand your meaning,” said M. Walrey, 
laughing. “ You are taking part with that scapegrace ! 
All the women do — even the best of them-. Bad men 
interest them, or, at all events, pique their curiosity ; 
and sometimes I even think they sympathize with 


126 


REMORSE. 


Lucifer. And why, may it please you, should people 
be more unhappy here than elsewhere ? ” 

“ Forgive me if I have vexed you, but all these 
details of manufacturing life are to me intensely 
disagreeable — almost repulsive. The people live in 
such close, confined quarters, and everything is so 
dirty.” 

“ A country life, I grant you, is more picturesque 
and much more cheerful ; but these houses, which are 
so black outside, are within, some of them, models of 
cleanliness.” 

Manuela made no other reply than to point to an 
open door, which gave the glimpse of an interior, and 
showed a narrow pallet, a three-legged stool, and a 
pile of dirty rags guarded by a hungry and ferocious- 
looking dog. 

“ That is a bachelor’s quarters, my child ; and, 
oddly enough, it is Pierre Li^ven’s room which you 
see. But I do not deny that there are many others 
equally wretched among the homes of my workmen, 
even among those who are better off than he. Think 
of this, however : a man who works hard all day at 
his trade, and sometimes all night, is not, on returning 
to his room at night, much inclined to put things in 
order. He throws himself upon his bed and sleeps 
without moving until the bell rings in the morning. 
The bachelors are badly off ; I realize it more fully 
now that I no longer belong to their band. But those 
who have taken a more sensible view of life, and 
have housekeepers, live further on. My workmen are 
nearly all married. Nothing is so restful, it seems to 


REMORSE. 


127 


them, as the welcome of a child who runs to meet 
them on their thresholds at night. Ah ! here come 
the children from school. See how clean they are, 
with their little black coats, their warm stockings, and 
well-polished shoes. Good-day, boys and girls ! good- 
day ! ” cried M. W alrey, gayly, as the merry crowd 
passed them. 

“ Look there, sweetheart ! ” he continued ; “ do you 
see no indications of ease, even of luxury, behind those 
shining windows and white curtains ? ” 

And in truth, at all those narrow casements, cut in 
the blackened walls of the small houses, were to be 
seen flowers in red earthen pots ; and these flowers, 
so tenderly cared for, seemed to say many sweet and 
consoling things. It was beauty by the side of the 
useful ; it was that poetry which may be introduced 
even into the humblest lives, by the valiant determi- 
nation to be happy. Of this quality Manuela had 
nothing ; she would never have taken pains to culti- 
vate at her windows those green plants and growing 
things, essential to our home enjoyment and to the 
embellishment of our surroundings, while they attract 
a glance of admiration from the passers by. She ob- 
stinately refused, therefore, to see anything about 
her except the smoke, the dirt, and all the disagree- 
able side of the picture. When she entered her home 
that evening, it seemed to her that the machinery, whose 
distant thunder never ceased — that enormous machin- 
ery of which Pierre Lieven complained that he was 
only an infinitesimal portion, and which M. Walrey 
regarded as victorious arms of conquest and of wealth 


128 


REMORSE. 


— had lured her in its powerful grasp, and was crush- 
ing her mercilessly to the earth. 


CHAPTER XII. 

It is difficult for a man who, like Francis Walrey, 
is totally without egotism, to understand that a woman 
whom he adores, and who is the source of all his hap- 
piness, fails to share the love she inspires and the joy 
she imparts. It therefore took Walrey some months 
to fully grasp the fact that Manuela was utterly dis- 
satisfied with her surroundings. His mother, how- 
ever, was much more clear-sighted. Each day brought 
to her a most desolating certainty that the young 
wife was far from happy ; that she was weary and 
lonely ; that she was totally without interest in every- 
thing with which she attempted to while away the 
hours which she evidently found too long. In all else 
Mme. Walrey was thoroughly content with her daugh- 
ter-in-law, who showed toward her the most entire 
amiability and child-like docility. In spite of this, 
however, the mother-in-law did not love Manuela ; for 
the two women were of utterly different and antago- 
nistic dispositions, separated as it were by a deep and 
mysterious abyss. A certain legend is told of a water- 
nymph who is encountered in the forest by a young 
huntsman. Believing her to be a homeless young 
girl without an asylum, he takes her to his roof as his 
wife. But before long the young husband’s grand- 


REMORSE. 


129 


mother discovers that the beautiful unknown is of 
supernatural origin — that she is as perfidious as the 
green waters from whence she rose. The grandmother 
is imprudent enough to warn the young man, and that 
very day the water-nymph disappears, bearing with 
her all the joy and life of the house. 

Mme. Walrey’s sentiments may be compared with 
those of the grandmother in the old story in regard to 
the stranger who had been introduced into her family. 
She watched her with increasing distrust, as if she 
momentarily expected to see a swan’s white wings un- 
folded from her shoulders, which would bear her far 
away, as they did the pagan nymph. But here ter- 
minated the analogy. The mother-in-law hid in the 
depths of her heart the secret which she fancied she 
had discovered. “ It is to be hoped,” she said to her- 
self, with a sigh, “that Francis will never have any 
suspicions. His wife, alas ! is deadly homesick ! ” 
It was this word “homesick” that Mme. Walrey used 
to express all the regret, longing, and melancholy 
which as a girl she had felt when sent away from- 
home by her parents for a time — sent to Antwerp, a 
pleasant spot too, but one to which she took a very 
great dislike. “ But then, ’ she said to herself, “ that 
was more reasonable, for I was far from every one, 
from my parents and my betrothed, while a husband’s 
country so soon becomes your own ! All that belongs 
to one whom you love, you learn to like.” Was it 
possible that the young wife did not love Francis as 
she ought? This horrible thought fell with the 
weight of lead on the poor mother’s heart. She re- 


130 


REMORSE. 


pelled the idea. “No, it cannot be that. She has 
not yet acquired a taste for her new duties. Let us 
wait for time to do its work.” But time as it passed 
away brought only an increase of sadness. 

Before long Walrey himself perceived that his 
wife offered but a very shadowy resemblance to the 
young girl to whom he had so suddenly lost his 
heart. In Paris Manuela was a totally different per- 
son. She had more spontaneity — she seemed to live 
on her own responsibility more ; while in this passive 
submission which she now evinced there was some- 
thing so indifferent and discouraging, as it were, that 
he was chilled to the heart. 

Unquestionably marriage modifies characters, but 
not to this degree. He was not so much alarmed, 
however, as his mother ; but he said to himself : 
“ What shall I do to amuse her ? I am too busy to 
spend much time with her. At her aunt’s she lived 
all the time surrounded by society.” And so he took 
his wife very often to the neighboring town, where she 
had hitherto gone only on Sundays to hear mass. Un- 
fortunately, the town was quite as dreary as the works ; 
it was in fact little more than a fortification, which 
had been tested by more than one siege, and which 
had nothing of the picturesque aspect of the battle- 
ments of the middle ages. The covered ways, the 
sally-ports, the ramparts and arches, seemed to blend 
and fade away into the monotonous landscape. A 
postern and drawbridge gave access to a series of 
narrow, dreary streets, in which stood the barracks 
and workshops. On Sundays, when the resident la- 


REMORSE. 


131 


dies had completed the exhibition of their toilets 
on the church square, they had no other place to go 
to but the ramparts, where wooden benches were 
placed upon the slope. Consequently the habits of 
the population were sedentary, and the ladies took 
great pride in their homes, in which reigned abun- 
dance and comfort. 

Manuela went to house after house of these rich 
mill-owners and manufacturers, brewers and tanners, 
who composed the Uite of a society which was exclu- 
sively hourgeoise ; she recognized and admired their 
home virtues, their praiseworthy simplicity, their kind- 
ness of heart ; but she was nevertheless frightfully 
wearied by it all. Mme. de Clairac’s salon had im- 
bued her with an appreciation of esprit, and made it 
in fact an essential of her existence. 

She nevertheless accepted with gratitude the cor- 
dial reception with which she was greeted, distributed 
invitations in accordance with her husband’s wishes 
and instructions, and then departed with the feeling 
of relief due to a duty accomplished, leaving her 
hosts a little undecided and perplexed. The new- 
comer was clearly not one of them ; they realized 
this with that unfailing sagacity which characterizes 
those who have spent their lives in commerce and in 
association with their equals. To these persons, too, 
she was the water-nymph with whom they had nothing 
in common — a fascinating creature, but one so strange 
and unlike themselves that she inspired curiosity and 
admiration, but neither sympathy nor confidence. 

Walrey recognized the isolation in which his wife 


132 


REMORSE. 


was left. “ It is,” he said to himself, the natural con- 
sequence of her superiority. People are astonished 
and made uncomfortable by it.” To draw around her, 
therefore, the ladies of the neighborhood, he proposed 
a succession of dinners and fetes. A great ball, of 
which the memory still lingers in that neighborhood, 
put the finishing touch to the reputation for elegance 
and beauty already enjoyed by Mme. Walrey the 
younger. But all these pleasures seemed to fatigue 
Manuela rather than to amuse her, and the poor hus- 
band reluctantly came to the conclusion that he had 
exhausted all his resources. “What can she ask 
more ? ” he said to himself. She had all that money 
could give, and Walrey respected money, as every 
one does who has taken the trouble to make it him- 
self. She was adored by a husband whose age differed 
unquestionably too much from her own, but who was 
nevertheless as young at heart as he had been at 
twenty. Had she not married him of her own free 
will ? Then of course he could not be displeasing to 
her; and yet there seemed between them an almost 
insurmountable barrier. 

Francis Walrey became a prey to melancholy re- 
flections, which he as carefully concealed from his 
mother as his mother did hers from him. He said to 
himself : “ In marrying I took an important step for 
the first time in my life without consulting her, and for 
the first time made my own happiness my only thought 
or care. The dear woman must at least be allowed to 
believe that this happiness is without a cloud.” 

The cloud lifted at last. He thought he had dis- 


REMORSE. 


133 


covered the key to all that marred his happiness. 
Each morning Manuela watched for the arrival of the 
mail with very evident impatience ; at the sight of a 
letter from her aunt or cousins her color changed, and 
it was with a hand trembling with joy or anxiety that 
she broke the seal. “ Good heavens ! ” said Walrey, 
to himself, after having noticed this several times, 
“ Why have I been so stupid ? She regrets those kind, 
devoted relatives of hers ; that is all. She is unhappy 
in her separation from them. It is a sentiment which 
is perfectly natural. I cannot pretend to take their 
place ! ” 

Manuela meanwhile devoured her letters with the 
vague hope of there finding a name which she never 
saw, and then folded them and became as pale and 
pensive as before. When her mother-in-law said, 
“ What news from Paris ?” she would hand her with 
indifference the sheet which was no longer of value in 
her eyes ; and Mme. Walrey, who found great diffi- 
culty in deciphering the English handwriting of the 
ladies, hesitatingly read, aided by her spectacles, prot- 
estations more graceful than sincere of friendship 
which had never been so demonstrative as since Ma- 
nuela’s departure, and a thousand promises of making 
her a visit, and a thousand entreaties for her to go to 
Paris, were it only for a few days. 

‘‘ How those dear souls love you ! ” exclaimed Mme. 
Walrey. So much perspicuity brought a smile to 
Manuela’s lips. One day her husband said to her: 
“ They are always so urgent ! Would you like to go ? 
Shall we go to Paris ? ” 


134 


REMORSE. 


She flushed and turned pale with mingled emo- 
tions of hope, desire, and terror — emotions which 
were so strong that they startled herself. Paris to 
her was Morton — the man whom her honor, her dig- 
nity, her peace of mind all forbade her to meet 
again. 

“We will go in the spring, sweetheart,” said M. 
Walrey, as he smoothed his wife’s hair with his large 
hand. 

She took his hand, and, almost without knowing 
what she did, carried it quickly to her lips in an im- 
pulse of mad and wicked gratitude, which he took 
for affection — the first evidence for which he had so 
long thirsted. 

“Why have you not told me before that you 
wished to return to Paris ? ” he murmured, as he em- 
braced her. “ I have no other wish than to make you 
happy; but you must open your wants to me frankly, 
my child. I am but a simple rustic ; I cannot divine 
your wishes.” 

This confidence, so naively expressed, overwhelmed 
her with shame. “ N^o, no,” she said, “ I do not desire 
to go.” But something within herself, stronger than 
she, not only desired it, but rejoiced over it. This 
hope of going to Paris brought back the roses to her 
cheeks and a smile to her lips. The door behind which, 
when closed, all hope had been left, was now again 
thrown open ; the withered plant had welcomed the 
reviving shower. 

“Did you know,” said Mme. Walrey, to her son, a 
few days later, “ that she came down stairs and helped 


REMORSE. 


135 


me in putting up my Lams ? She did it most skill- 
fully, too ! ” 

“ She was singing yesterday in her chamber when 
I came in,” answered Walrey, gaily. “I had no idea 
that she could sing like that ; it was like a bird war- 
bling, The house is absolutely transformed ! ” 

Not daring to exchange congratulations, lest the 
very strength of their present joy should prove the 
concealment of their past anxiety, the mother and son 
pressed each other’s hands in silence. 

They were not alone in their observations of Ma- 
nuela. A third person followed the movements of the 
young woman with equal attention and interest ; his 
perpetual espionage never failed. 

When in the early days of her marriage Manuela, 
with her face pushed close to the window, dried her 
tears while she feigned to be watching, through the 
small opening between crowded chimneys, some barge 
laden with merchandise, slowly gliding down the 
Sambre, there were always two large eyes on the 
watch outside — eyes belonging to Pierre Lieven, 
who surprised the tears and drank them in with 
delight : all, then, was not unalloyed bliss in this 
wealthy home. The woman whom he had ventured 
to love was not at peace ; and the man who had 
taken possession of her did not know how to make 
her happy ! 

Manuela could not cross her threshold without 
meeting face to face this idler of the rolling-mills. 
Did she drive out, the American, who had read as 
many wretched romances as he had communistic lu- 


136 


REMORSE. 


ciibrations, longed for some accident to take place 
whick should enable him to save her life, to establish 
a claim upon her gratitude. In short, to attract her 
notice was now his greatest desire. 

He made love to her maid, and in this way pos- 
sessed himself of many little secrets of her mistress — 
unimportant details of her everyday life. One morn- 
ing he even climbed the balcony of the dining-room, 
and laid by Manuela’s plate a rare and beautiful hot- 
house flower which he had been reckless enough to 
buy in the town ; and then, crouching himself under 
the window, he waited to see her surprise. He saw a 
quick gesture which signified, ‘‘ How came this here ? ” 
Then another, not less easy of comprehension, “No 
matter, I cannot resist it; ” and the flower shone like a 
star among those black tresses. It seemed to Rolling- 
Stone that by this one act the sovereign of his heart 
had raised him to a place beside her. He walked as 
it were with his head in the clouds, haughtily apart 
from his comrades, for the succeeding week. Ma- 
nuela’s most insignificant acts acquired for him the 
greatest importance, and occupied him to the exclusion 
of everything else. Twenty times a day he left his 
work to run and watch the shadows which passed and 
repassed before the curtains in her room. Those white 
curtains were the lodestones which attracted him in- 
cessantly, and behind which his imagination pictured 
an inaccessible Paradise. 

“ Has the American been drinking ? ” said his com- 
panions, at last, noticing his singular abstraction, 
broken only by an occasional paroxysm of causeless 


REMORSE. 137 

rage. It was indeed intoxication, but one in wbich 
wine played no part. 

When the shutters of the Walrey mansion were 
closed, and the inmates were shrouded in mystery and 
seclusion, it seemed to Pierre Li6ven that he was piti- 
lessly exiled ; and he struggled against a perpetual 
temptation which assailed him to set fire to those walls 
and bear Manuela in his arms through roaring flames. 
A certain grandee of Spain, whom good La Fontaine 
describes as “rather great than mad,” was guilty of 
such an extravagance, which in those days was char- 
acterized as “ a most gallant deed ; ” but a like act 
perpetrated in our time by a workman in an iron- 
foundry would be likely to be regarded with different 
eyes, and would send the enamored incendiary to the 
galleys. The American fortunately remembered this 
in season. 

This mad longing, however, nearly obtained the 
ascendancy over his common sense the night of the 
famous ball given by the Walreys. The house had a 
festal air that was almost insulting to the man who 
looked on from outside ; it was blazing with lights, 
and a full band was playing in the great hall. Carri- 
ages rolled in rapid succession up to the door, bringing 
guests in gorgeous toilets, upon whom the curious 
crowd of workmen, standing a little apart, exchanged 
criticisms which were often anything but flattering to 
the subjects thereof. These people thoroughly en- 
joyed the gay panorama — all at least save Pierre Lie- 
ven. His unsatisfied, envious ambition, his wounded 
vanity, were at this time mingled with an exaggerated 


138 


REMORSE. 


idea of the rights of that poor humanity of which he 
was a suffering atom. He hated Walrey as he had 
never before hated any one. 

“ His father was nothing more in the world than 
my father Lieven ! ” he said to himself. “ Why, then, 
am I not in his place ? Why does not his wealth be- 
long to me ? Why, in this unrighteous division of the 
goods of this world, has he had so much and I nothing ? 
Why has he been so fortunate and I so unlucky ? ” 

He had the audacity to enter the vestibule, and 
once there he calmly placed himself where he could 
look into the ball-room. At first he was dazzled by 
the brilliant lights ; but that brilliancy soon faded be- 
fore the sight of a crowd of women in laces, velvets, 
and satins, with uncovered shoulders and glittering 
jewels. 

The fumes of brutal passions mounted to the brain 
of the young man. Other men less good-looking by 
far than himself — in fact, heavy and common-looking 
— paid their court to these houris — for the plainest of 
the ladies from the town were houris in Lieven’s 
eyes, as he saw them now all bedecked with their 
flowers and furbelows. Several couples waltzing swept 
past the recess where he had buried himself as best he 
could ; a floating ribbon, a fold of light gauze, touched 
him, and a faint perfume finished the work of intoxi- 
cation. 

And to think,” he muttered between his closely- 
shut teeth — ‘‘ to think that these bourgeois have over 
me but one superiority — their dress-coats ! I could 
wear one far better than anybody here ! ” 


REMORSE. 


139 


To be in evening dress, to have his arm around 
one of those slender waists, he would willingly have 
given his head ! Suddenly he perceived Mme. Wal- 
rey — her who, in his eyes, united in her person all that 
was most beautiful in the world. It is difficult for 
any one accustomed to society, to the world and its 
ways, to understand what a man of the people must 
feel when for the first time he sees a woman in full 
ball costume — a costume which must strike him as 
almost nudity. Never in his wildest hallucinations 
had Pierre dared to invoke under this aspect the form 
of his imaginary mistress. She passed through the 
crowd which opened before her — her brow crowned 
with roses, her fair throat encircled with diamonds — 
serene and haughty, with all the insignia of a social 
royalty of which even the most rebellious spirit must 
admit the prestige. 

Lieven with difficulty repressed an exclamation. 
Then it seemed to him that this little foot, daintily 
clad in satin, was placed upon his neck and held him 
down, prostrate as an Eastern slave. 

A gentleman approached her with a low bow ; he 
was asking her to dance, probably. Yes — she made 
a sign of acquiescence ; he placed his arm about her, 
and they moved away in the measured rhythm of a 
waltz. She passed so near the American that he fan- 
cied that he felt her breath, the warmth of her snowy 
arm ; it was like a flash of lightning. He grew dizzy, 
and then, feeling ready to commit some rash act — to 
throw himself upon her and snatch her away from all 
these people — he rushed outside without knowing 


140 


REMORSE. 


whether he was going to cast himself into the Sam- 
bre and put an end to the misery he endured, or to 
seek some weapon with which to kill any man who 
dared in his sight to lay a finger upon her. 

Until daybreak he paced the miry banks of the 
river, drenched by an icy rain, tortured by the music 
of the orchestra, both hands pressed upon his ears, 
gesticulating, declaiming, shouting. “No !” he cried 
aloud — “ No ! there is no justice — there is no God ! 
All must be destroyed — all must be rebuilt ! ” If he 
had held in his hand a thunderbolt, the insolent pros- 
perity of the Walreys would have been but of mo- 
mentary duration. 

Certainly he was mad — and wickedly mad. Yet 
one is forced to feel a certain compassion for any hu- 
man being, whatever he may be, who, in a stormy 
night like this, wanders bareheaded a few rods from a 
scene of festivity, maddened by that festivity as if it 
were a personal insult ; alone, or having as his only 
companions the demons of Hate and Envy — soul and 
body both the prey of a mad devouring passion, which 
an unhappy delusion induces him to call by the much 
abused name of love. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Spring had come, although it had as yet, in that 
chilly northern clime, given but few signs of its 
presence ; the days were longer, the sky clearer, and 


REMORSE. 


141 


an occasional song from a bird was heard among the 
branches, whose buds were scarcely beginning to 
swell. 

On a warm afternoon Manuela, contrary to her 
habits, went out on foot. She left the house almost 
secretly, and, standing at the garden-gate, looked 
around as if to assure herself that no one was follow- 
ing her before she took the road to the town. All this 
caution, however, did not prevent the American from 
following her footsteps, with a determination as fixed 
as her own. She could do nothing without his seeing 
it or divining it. 

Manuela followed the course of the Sambre, whose 
muddy waters were growing clearer ; she passed 
through the postern opening into a steep and ill-paved 
street, which led to the square from the fortifications. 
She moved unhesitatingly, but with an uneven step, 
like that of a woman going to some unworthy rendez- 
vous, impelled by an impulse against which she has 
ceased to struggle, toward a book-store near the 
church. It was the only one in the to^vn, and it 
amply sufficed for the needs of the population, which 
found scanty time for reading. The collection was 
composed in a great degree of old romances, whose 
very names, if they had been ever known, were long 
since forgotten in more civilized regions ; their dusty 
covers bore witness to the long and useless sojourn 
they had made amid the often-renewed stock of alma- 
nacs, lithographs of saints and martyrs, and station- 
ery. 

On the preceding Sunday, after she left church. 


142 


REMORSE. 


Manuela had caught a glimpse among these books, 
with whose uninviting exterior she was only too famil- 
iar, of a volume in newer and fresher binding. She 
looked at it ; it was Maurice Morton’s last work, 
which she had not as yet seen. This small volume, 
with its pale-blue covers, had haunted her ever since, 
as the forbidden fruit probably haunted Eve. In her 
dreams it came to her bedside, and opened its covers 
with a rustle which startled her, and displayed first a 
few blank leaves, and then, instead of index, a por- 
trait — Maurice’s portrait ; and she made no further 
investigation, knowing that she should find nothing 
more than this portrait repeated over and over 
again. When she woke she said to herself, “ What 
has he written ? ” She went over the many subjects 
on which they had conversed, and, in her wonder as 
to what this romance might be, herself composed an- 
other, which, in fact, was the one she had dreamed, 
and which came to such a lame and impotent conclu- 
sion. 

This state of mind, which, although painful, was 
not without its pleasures, lasted for several days, and 
then Manuela said to herself : ‘‘ I shall never mention 
to my husband the promise he made to take me to 
Paris; he says no more about it. And, as this idea is 
evidently relinquished, have I not a right to this small 
indulgence ? — a most innocent one too,” she added, 
“and one that he would be the first to accord 
me.” 

The question thus adroitly put was soon answered. 
Her feet took her, notwithstanding a certain mental 


REMORSE. 


143 


reluctance, swiftly toward the danger, which she 
would not call by that name, because it was not a vis- 
ible danger. Why, then, if the pleasure was so inno- 
cent a one, did she conceal it ? Why, when she had 
possessed herself of her prize, did she bear it so has- 
tily away ? The bookseller was obliged to follow her 
down the street to return her the change of a gold 
piece she had thrown do^vn upon the counter. 

And, now that Maurice was pressed close against 
her heart, where should she go with him ? To that 
dreary Walrey mansion which she called her home ? 
No. An unreasonable but invincible repugnance 
withheld her ; it seemed to her that the black hori- 
zon of the foundiy would throw a disenchanting 
shadow upon the pages of her volume. Turning her 
back upon the town, upon the interminable range of 
manufactories, upon the crowded environs enveloped 
in the dense smoke of the furnaces, where the regular 
strokes of hammers and the incessant noise of machi- 
nery were heard, she turned into a road which she 
selected quite by chance, and which took her into a 
part of the country with which she was as yet quite 
unfamiliar, and which had in some degree escaped the 
industrial regime. 

The slightly undulating country, in an admirable 
state of cultivation, was covered with a carpet of ten- 
der green, and stretched in uninterrupted monotony 
before her. Occasional clumps of trees were putting 
forth their young, shivering leaves, with a moderation 
and prudence altogether Flemish, as if they antici- 
pated another frost ; but the hedges were white with 


144 


REMORSE, 


blossoms, the air was full of a faint odor of bitter 
almonds, and the sun at intervals shone forth with a 
quick gleam, which, resting on the surface of the 
meadows as level as that of a pond, brought out all 
the various shades of green, whose subdued tints also 
suggested the idea of a marsh. 

After having walked a long time to discover some 
retreat more favorable than she had as yet found, 
Manuela seated herself by the roadside, protected 
from the curiosity of the passer-by only by a large 
thorn-bush, and, drawing the volume from the folds 
of her cloak, plunged into it. 

How subtile is the art which obliterates distance 
and time, which dulls one’s reason, leads astray one’s 
conscience, effaces at one stroke the realities of life, and 
envelops the deluded but happy imagination in the gold- 
en clouds of fiction ! She was no longer reading ; she 
was with him, with Mme. de Clairac at St. -Cloud, at 
the theatre. All those ingenious or tender sentences, 
paradoxical or bewildering, that sparkling wit, and 
that outpouring of the heart, were none of them new 
to her ; she had often heard them, for, as Mme. de 
Clairac had said, “ The artist likes to try his effects 
on his intimates before he appeals to the public.” But 
this cruel mot Manuela no longer remembered. She 
had forgotten everything which should or could have 
preserved her from the dear folly which she had de- 
liberately sought. 

For the first time since her marriage, which had 
landed her in this land of coal-dust, she was convers- 
ing with a friend — listening, replying, enjoying the 


REMORSE. 


145 


delights of familiar intercourse, where each opened 
the whole heart to the other. ITo — those were not 
printed words ; she heard Morton’s voice breathing 
them in her ear. Those who after a long sojourn in 
foreign lands listen with inexpressible rapture to the 
first sound of their mother-tongue can alone under- 
stand Manuela’s sensations. She awoke at the magi- 
cian’s touch, like the sleeping beauty in the fairy tale, 
from a torpor which all the tenderness lavished upon 
her by her husband had failed to dissipate — that hus- 
band whose only fault was that he was not the poet, 
the prince. She was brought to life again, and even 
to something more. 

In youth imagination is certainly a predominant 
faculty. When that is worn and withered, we cease, 
in a certain sense, to be. During a sleep of six 
months, equivalent to centuries, Manuela’s had been 
starving — literally without food. She now made 
amends for this abstinence — she summoned about her 
all the ghosts of hope and love and ideal felicity, of 
whom she had once made companions, and who had 
long since deserted her ! 

Suddenly they faded away, obliterated by the 
gathering darkness, which covered the pages of the 
book from whence they had emerged. For more 
than an hour Manuela had been reading in a twilight 
which was momentarily becoming more obscure. She 
could hardly grasp the meaning of the words, and 
was compelled to read and reread them ; they became 
more and more illegible, and then impossible to read. 

Manuela looked up impatiently ; what was her 

7 


146 


RE3fORSE, 


surprise to find herself by the side of a Flemish 
highway, on the borders of a ditch ! The shadows of 
which she had been vaguely conscious were only too 
real, for they were those of night. She shivered 
from head to foot ; it was cold, night was close at 
hand, and she was on a strange road far from her 
home. All this was like a douche of ice-cold water 
upon her delirium. She was herself once more, and 
looked about with no little disquietude. She tried to 
discover which was the east, hut no desert was more 
uniform than this vast plain, so perfectly level, inter- 
sected by hedges and roads, each one precisely like 
the others. 

Manuela had seated herself at the angle where 
two roads met, and she could not remember whether 
she had taken the right or the left. Not a house was 
in sight. She followed one of these roads, which she 
soon found to he the worse ; deep ruts and large pools 
arrested her at every step. Her delicate boots were 
withdrawn with difficulty from the deep mud. The 
darkness was momentarily growing denser, and bring- 
ing with it the great dread that must come to any 
woman who finds herself alone on a deserted and un- 
known road. 

Sometimes she fancied she heard a rustling on the 
other side of the hedge along which she was walking. 
Her heart heat to suffocation ; she tried to listen, then 
hurried on with renewed haste, only to stop again to 
regain her lost breath. She was not mistaken ; there 
was some one behind her, and suddenly a man’s voice 
was heard through the darkness and the silence : 


REMORSE. 147 

“You are going in an opposite direction to the 
works, madame.” 

This warning was most acceptable. The voice 
indicated no evil intentions, and the person who spoke 
evidently knew her, since he told her where her home 
was before she had asked the question. She turned 
around, surprised of course, but somewhat reassured, 
only to start back assailed by new terrors. The dark- 
ness was not so dense that she could not recognize the 
tall form and mocking, decided face of Pierre Lieven, 
familiarly called the American. 

Lieven saw her fright, and was not sorry for it. 
He would have preferred a thousand times over to see 
this terror rather than to be accosted fearlessly, as she 
might have accosted any person meeting her and put- 
ting her on the right road home. 

“You have gone sadly astray, madame,” began 
the American, “ and you run the risk of losing yourself 
entirely, if you do not allow me to show you the way 
back ; for there is no moon, and there is neither 
farm nor village on this road, which is little fre- 
quented.” 

He desired if possible to increase her timidity ; 
but Manuela remembered that utter fearlessness in the 
presence of wild beasts succeeds in subduing them, 
and, besides, at that moment she really needed Eleven’s 
services as guide. 

“ I shall be extremely obliged to you if you will 
put me on my road,” she said, with calm dignity. 
“ You belong to the works, I think?” 

“I belong to nothing and to no one,” answered 


148 


REMORSE. 


the communist, apparently disturbed by the expres- 
sion she had used. “ That is,” he added, with a strange 
smile which was unseen by Manuela in the darkness, 
“ I belong to no man. I belong to a woman body 
and soul, and I will tell you who that woman is, ma- 
dame, though perhaps you do not care to know. 
There are very many things I should like to tell 
you.” 

“ This is not an auspicious moment,” replied the 
lady, with every appearance of tranquillity, although 
she felt herself threatened as by a mad dog or a luna- 
tic. “I am now in great haste to return home for 
dinner.” 

“ You will reach there in time ; the works are not 
far off by the cross-road. On this side — please turn 
to the right. I will walk in front.” 

They pursued their way in silence for some little 
time. Pierre was by no means at his ease, notwith- 
standing the vast store of audacity and eloquence 
with which he was provided. Manuela was absorbed 
in a determination not to offend her conductor again 
by any further unfortunate observation. 

“ I frightened you,” said the American, abruptly, 
turning his head over his shoulder. “ It was natural, 
for they have said evil things of me to you, I im- 
agine ! ” 

Believing that it was best to tell the truth, she re- 
plied frankly : “ It is true that you have the reputation 
of being a poor workman, Pierre Lieven — that is 
your name, I believe ? ” 

“ And when people like myself are not beasts of 


REMORSE. 


149 


burden, submitting voluntarily to the yoke, there are 
always plenty of disagreeable things to say about us ; 
is not that so, madame ? ” 

“ I prefer to think well of those who serve me,” 
answered Manuela, in an evasive fashion. 

‘‘ Serve you ! ” he repeated with a sneer — “ serve 
you ! ” After a pause — “ If you allowed a gentleman 
to take you home, madame, you would feel that you 
were doing him a favor ; but I am only a poor arti- 
san, dependent upon the wages received from your 
husband.” 

Manuela, in great embarrassment, hesitated how to 
reply so as to appease without encouraging this arro- 
gant susceptibility. 

“ Is it my fault,” continued Rolling-Stone, ‘‘ that 
I am above my station in life ? I was born for better 
things than to keep the forge-bellows going. I am 
not made of that sort of clay, madame. Perhaps you 
have been told this before. I belong to a race of 
gentlemen ” — he uttered the word in a tone of sar- 
casm, which was not without a touch of vanity — “ the 
son, madame, of a gentleman glass-blower, licensed by 
his majesty the king ! ” 

Lieven laughed with contemptuous scorn. It was 
one of the indications of the utter perversity of his 
nature that he liked better to speak of his natural 
father, who had abandoned him, than of the father by 
adoption, whose name he bore. 

“ I detest licenses,” he broke out again, after a 
long silence, as if he were a little ashamed of what he 
had said, which was so utterly at variance with the 


150 


REMORSE. 


political opinions lie always advanced. “ I detest 
what are called the privileged classes,” he continued ; 
‘‘ and yet I think I should he more at home with the 
nobility than with the bourgeois. It is true that I 
know them less, but the nobility have in them blood, 
something which justifies their disdain of us : they 
were born in the purple. For centuries they have 
folded their arms in idleness. Their daughters are as 
superb as queens — superb like you, madame. And 
then those people do not oppress us ; they simply ig- 
nore our existence — that is all ; while these bourgeois, 
who only yesterday were merely our equals, avenge 
upon us a parentage which they cannot deny, and 
make money from the sweat of our brows. They, in 
fact, wage war against their brothers.” 

“ Every mechanic has within himself the means of 
becoming a bourgeois in his turn,” said Manuela, de- 
termined to confine herself to generalities. — Around 
them the plain extended indefinitely ; she was literally 
at the mercy of this man. 

Every mechanic ! Good heavens, madame, is 
mental toil not above that of the hands ? or is that, 
too, a privilege denied to the poor? This head of 
mine — ^this head of a laboring man — has revolved 
great projects : the suppression of misery by the abo- 
lition of those iniquities, property and succession. I 
have sought a way to make all the world happy upon 
a land which may be free to all — with its fruits and 
its crops. I have dreamed over the deliverance of 
my people as the heroes of history — ” 

‘‘ I know that you have read a great deal,” inter- 


REMORSE. 151 

rupted Manuela, who, in fact, was interested and 
astonished by this incendiary talk. 

“Yes, I have read everything, but to what good? 
Only to make me more unhappy by isolating myself 
in a still greater degree from the people about me. 
The information I have acquired raises me above my 
own class, without opening another for my reception. 
My comrades are below me intellectually ; my em- 
ployers detest me ; and the blood that comes to me 
through my father — ” 

“ Perhaps,” interrupted Manuela, “ you might have 
been happier, with your exceptional abilities, had you 
obtained some sort of a position other than that of a 
mere workman in the forge.” 

“Yes, to elevate me simply in the hierarchy of 
servitude. Thanks ; that plan offers no temptation. 
I spoke a moment ago of noble blood. It mocks at all 
laws and sacraments, and yet it is our master, inas- 
much as it inspires us with tastes which are stronger 
than ourselves. Is it my fault, I repeat, if the rolliug- 
mill and the forge are unfitted for me ? if — Come, 
now, you admit that people have spoken ill of Roll- 
ing-Stone, and yet I have no vices. I am neither a 
drunkard nor a libertine ; no one ever saw me inside 
of a wine-shop, and the girls know that I would not 
take the trouble to look at them. Is it my fault if 
poor wine disgusts me, if I can only love a duchess ? 
if—” 

“ This road is almost impassable,” cried Manuela ; 
“it is a mere marsh.” 

“It is much shorter than the others. See, the 


152 


REMORSE. 


house is not a hundred feet off — down there where 
you see the light of the furnaces. Shall I help you 
to walk, or shall I carry you ? ” 

He approached so eagerly that Manuela was hor- 
ribly frightened. She had much better encourage 
him to quote at his ease Saint-Simon and Father En- 
fantin, Proudhon and Fourier — any and all of those 
pernicious counselors who had deranged his poor 
brain — ^than allow him to turn his attention toward 
her. 

“ Ho, no,” she cried, shrinking back. 

“ You are still afraid of me, I see,” he muttered. 
She pretended not to hear him, and to be entirely ab- 
sorbed in selecting a dry place whereon to put her 
feet. “ I shall never succeed in proving to you, ma- 
dame,” he continued, ‘‘ that I am not a wicked man — 
only a most unhappy one. And yet you ought to 
understand the misery of others, you who are so often 
weary of your life that you wander off over roads you 
never saw before, to cry your eyes out over your 
book ! ” 

Through the thick darkness he felt the contemptu- 
ous, haughty glance, which made his face tingle as 
with the lash of a whip. “ Pardon me ! I had no 
intention of offending you. I ought to see nothing, 
hear nothing, understand nothing ; but I am yours, 
madame — let me say this once more — I am your hum- 
ble slave, notwithstanding all your contempt.” 

Contempt ! ” 

Manuela would not have hazarded this word an 
hour before, amid the silence of the meadows ; but 


REMORSE. 


153 


the increasing noise of the forges gave her courage. 
Their perilous tete-d-tete was nearly at an end. 

Yes,” he replied. “ Do you not remember our 
first meeting on that steamer ? Of all the humilia- 
tions which I have ever suffered in my life, that, I 
swear to you, has been the most painful — ” 

“ If I humiliated you,” interrupted Manuela, “ it 
was most unintentionally, and I regret it.” 

^‘You say that, madame, most kindly, and your 
voice is kinder than your words. Ah ! if people only 
knew the good that could be done by a few kind and 
sympathetic words, in a world where they are so rare ! 
A generous word, an encouraging phrase, even a look 
— what healing they bear to one who has suffered 
long from injustice ! Here we are, madame ; we 
have reached your home. I am a pariah, as I told 
you. My companions listen to me without under- 
standing me, while others fear and repel me. But 
little in future shall I care for that, if I have awakened 
your compassion. I have had it in my power to-night 
to render you a service — a very small one ; but I have 
imposed upon myself a great restraint — one more 
meritorious than you can imagine. I had an avowal 
to make to you — an avowal that now I shall never 
make, even should my secret stifle me. Respect for 
you has sealed my lips. Why do you still draw 
back ? Have we not been alone in the darkness all 
this time ? Could I not have said anything I pleased 
to you ? And I pleased to say nothing of all that 
burned in my heart and upon my lips. What will 
you do to recompense me for this self-control ? ” 


154 


REMORSE. 


They were at the garden gate. Manuela had noth- 
ing more to fear. She was really much moved. This 
passionate, breathless supplication touched her in spite 
of herself, and aroused within her heart a feeling of 
intense compassion. She had touched the hardened 
nature of this darkened soul, which for the first time 
asked for sympathy. 

“ I pity you ! ” she said ; “ I pity you profoundly. 
May God help you ! I wish that it were in my power 
to serve you.” 

The light from a neighboring furnace lighted 
Pierre Lieven’s face, and showed it contracted by a 
nameless anguish ; her pity increased. She remem- 
bered that our blessed Master did not disdain to touch 
the leper to cure him. She had a childlike, artless 
belief in the good effects of a mark of confidence 
and esteem on this victim of an ulcerated pride. She 
held out her hand to him as if she were bestowing 
alms upon him, as she said, ‘‘Good-night, and many 
thanks ! ” 

She turned away, but the touch of her ungloved 
hand, voluntarily placed within his own, maddened 
the American ; he fell upon his knees before her, and 
covered her dress with impetuous kisses. 

“ God ! ” he cried, “ you speak of God ! It is you 
whom alone I recognize as God — the only one in whom 
I believe, the only one whom I shall ever serve. For 
the first time in my life I am kneeling — it is at your 
feet — and you turn your back upon me, and never 
again shall I have an hour alone with you, an hour by 
which I failed to profit, and which I would buy back 


REMORSE. 


155 


with every drop of blood in my body ; an hour in 
which I did not even tell you that I loved you ! ” 
Manuela uttered a cry, released her dress from the 
grasp of the madman, and took to flight. Even when 
she was inside the garden she did not cease to run, 
still thinking herself pursued and threatened. Sev- 
eral days elapsed before she could overcome the im- 
pression this scene had made upon her. She never 
spoke of it, however, to her husband ; or rather she 
conflned herself to saying that she had lost her way 
in a country walk, and that she had found it again 
with great difficulty. 

Pray,” said her husband, never again be guilty 
of such an imprudence. It might lead to most dis- 
astrous consequences ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

It was a lingering feeling of compassion which 
decided Manuela to keep silence upon the adventure, 
which for a long time disgusted her with solitary 
walks. She knew that her husband was more than 
ever irritated against the American. This winter 
there had been several strikes in the founderies and 
manufactories of the north. Certain questions and 
discussions on the subject of salary had disturbed the 
peace of the rolling-mill, and Rolling-Stone passed 
for the most prominent among the coalition of disaf- 


156 


REMORSE. 


fected laborers, which menaced the coalition of their 
masters. 

A sort of club was gathered together by this ora- 
tor, whose silvery tongue distilled the worst socialistic 
venom under the shelter of the question of remunera- 
tion of labor, which for him was a mere pretext. 

“We have reached a crisis,” said M. Walrey, a 
few days after Manuela’s eventful walk. “ The news- 
papers speak of deplorable riots at Roubaix, which 
will be repeated here, I fear. Good Heavens ! I know 
— no one knows better — that the complaints of our 
workmen are by no means without foundation ; but 
they have not taken the right way to make them 
heard. We must now, unless we forfeit all future 
authority, stand firm, and withhold the concessions 
which, left to ourselves, we would have accorded ! 
I dare not absent myself on the eve of an open war. 
Therefore, you see, sweetheart, that it is impossible 
for me to take you to Paris as I promised.” 

Manuela made a little gesture, which could be un- 
derstood to express resignation as well as regret. 

“Your wife is reasonable, my son; she will un- 
derstand the grave duties which keep you here,” said 
Mme. Walrey, as she affectionately laid her wrin- 
kled hand on her daughter-in-law’s slender white 
fingers. 

“But, mother, can no one take his place here?” 
said Manuela. 

“Take his place? What, now, in such times as 
these ? Why, only this morning old Fearless called 
him the friend of the operatives. A severe friend 


REMORSE. 


157 


now, possibly, but still a friend — ready for concilia- 
tion whenever conciliation is just and practicable. 
Who, then, could take his place in such a task as 
this? Overseers could be found, of course, but a 
second self it would be impossible to obtain. Masters 
devolve their duties too often upon such people, who 
conduct themselves in such a way that the workmen 
hate them. Is not that so, Francis ? There must be 
no one between the master and the workman. Your 
father always said so — ” 

‘‘And I have always remembered it, my dear 
mother : and, therefore, I feel that while I remain at 
my post not a finger will be lifted among my men, 
and that the danger will finally blow over. But why 
should Manuela be sacrificed to these cares ? They 
do not concern her in the least.” 

“Do they not weigh heavily on her husband?” 
interrupted Mme. Walrey. 

“ Her husband has strength to carry them ! ” and 
Walrey shrugged his broad shoulders with a kindly 
smile. “He can carry them, too, with infinitely 
greater ease if he feels that he alone bears the weight. 
What should prevent you from going without me, 
Manuela, to make your aunt a little visit? I will 
join you as soon as I can : and, if I find that impos- 
sible, why you need not stay quite so long.” 

“ How kind you are ! ” exclaimed Manuela, color- 
ing high. To refuse seemed ungracious, and to ac- 
cept she was ashamed. 

“You see,” said M. Walrey to his mother, “it is 
not quite fair that we should expect her to abandon 


158 


REMORSE. 


her family entirely for us. We will try not to be 
jealous ! ” 

But the lips of the old lady were tightly com- 
pressed. She could not understand how a wife could 
be willing to leave her husband alone at a season of 
such harassing anxiety, and possibly even of danger. 
The newspapers were full of tales of violence, of ac- 
counts of wanton destruction committed at Roubaix. 
She took up the small local sheet and read them aloud, 
dwelling upon every, syllable. When she had finished 
she turned a scrutinizing glance upon Manuela, who 
was plainly much agitated. 

‘‘ Come now, mother, do not alarm this child, I beg 
of you. I assure you that by remaining at my post I 
avoid all danger of trouble here.” 

Manuela tried to say, “ I shall remain with you.” 
Her mother-in-law was evidently expecting to hear 
those words ; her husband himself would have been 
more pleased than surprised had she uttered them ; 
but she contented herself with saying, “ You suggest 
a thing of which I had not thought.” She said this 
in a tone which clearly signified, “We will think of it 
again.” 

Mme. Walrey’s eyelids fell quickly, to conceal a 
disapproving glance. Her sad apprehensions were 
realized. Francis assuredly had not married the 
faithful, devoted wife that he should have had. The 
reproaches she addressed to Manuela within the 
depths of her soul were very bitter, while Manuela by 
no means spared herself. “ I am a coward,” she 
thought, “and I allow myself to drift in this way 


REMORSE. 


159 


toward Paris. Why should I go there ? Is it to see 
him again ? I do not wish to see him ; he is odious 
to me now ! Besides, he is almost always absent at 
this season. I should not see him, in all probability ; 
in fact, I am certain that I should not see him. It is, 
then, clear that it is not on his account that I wish to 
take this journey. Is it to meet my aunt, and Marthe, 
and Susanne? Why do I allow Francis to think 
that I love them ? It is duplicity, and I never tell a 
falsehood — I thought myself above such cowardly 
meanness. I will have done with this fancy, which I 
cannot explain even to myself.” 

And yet several days later she said to her husband 
in an entreating voice : 

“ When do you intend to send me off to Paris ? ” 

“ I think that you will not care to wait until sum- 
mer is here to shut yourself up in a city,” said Fran- 
cis, trying to enter into her plans. 

“ And,” added his wife, “ this is the month of 
May.” 

By trifling with her conscience she had deluded 
herself into thinking, ‘‘Why should I seek for any 
other motive for my wish to go to Paris ? Is it not 
natural to desire a change ? This place is so dreary, 
and Paris, on the contrary — this is the very time for 
Paris.” 

The next day M. Walrey took her to the railway 
station, and installed her with her maid in a coupcy 
which he could not make up his mind to leave until 
the locomotive had sounded its last warning whistle. 
“You will write to me every day,” he repeated. 


160 


REMORSE, 


“ Amuse yourself, sweetheart ; but do not forget us, 
or tarry too long away.” 

Up to the very last moment Manuela was sorely 
tempted to spring out upon the platform, and say, 
‘‘ Take me home with you. I am not going.” It 
would have been wise, it would have been generous ; 
but she was neither wise nor generous. 

Mme. Walrey was at the window when her son 
came back alone, with his head bowed in profound 
thought. As soon as he saw her he smiled, but it was 
too late; she had seen him when his mask was dropped. 
When he entered he went up to her with a tender 
greeting. Well, well, little mother! we are alone 
once more — just as it used to be in old times ? ” 

She dashed aside a tear, for nothing was as in old 
times. In old times he did not sit there with an ab- 
sent expression in his face, with eyes that seemed to 
be questioning the future ; he did not send away his 
supper untasted; he did not pace his room with meas- 
ured footfall half the night through ; nor had it been 
his habit to start and look around, as if in momentary 
expectation of the arrival of some one. 

“We shall soon see her again, my son,” said Mme. 
Walrey, half sadly, after a long silence. 

“ And until then I have you,” answered Francis, 
giving his mother — who, frail as she was, made no 
objection — one of those hearty embraces which he 
had never dared inflict on Manuela. 

Neither did he dare write her of the frightful void 
created by her absence. He had not courage to put 
on paper the thousand and one tender trifles, nor the 


REMORSE. 


161 


passionate love which was in his heart, when he took 
up his pen. Never before had he written to any 
woman, and he feared that he should express himself 
but poorly — that he should be puerile and ridiculous. 
Nevertheless his wife daily received a letter from him 
— a letter which he felt to be the strongest proof of 
his affection, since never once did he express the in- 
tense longing he felt for her return. Since the major- 
ity of people succeed so admirably in putting on paper 
that which they do not feel, and are able to convince 
others of their sincerity, there is a certain dismal con- 
solation in finding that the contrary may happen occa- 
sionally. The happiest hour in each twenty-four to 
Francis Walrey was that which he employed in writ- 
ing to his wife. Nothing occurred which he did not 
transmit to her in his daily bulletin, the invariable 
termination of which was a promise that he would 
join her as soon as he had reorganized the affairs at 
the works. The strike had been strangled in its 
birth ; he had been both firm and indulgent, encour- 
aging his workmen to state their grievances, and 
pointing out to them that, in ruining him, they ruined 
themselves. Concessions had been made on both 
sides. The most turbulent had been brought to ex- 
press their penitence; but, as Walrey wrote, he had 
not hesitated to lop off certain decayed branches, 
among others the American, who had been guilty of 
the most unparalleled insolence, and who had become 
so well known among all employers that he would be 
driven out of the country, finding it impossible to 
procure work. His comrades themselves had lost all 


162 


REMORSE. 


confidence in him, and regarded him as the instigator 
of all their own misconduct. 

Her husband’s example was not imitated by Ma- 
nuela. She wrote to him only of herself. She told her 
husband of everything she did with the most scrupu- 
lous exactitude. This loyalty was an easy thing to 
her, for she had nothing to hide. She even mentioned 
the name of every person she saw. Mme. de Clairac 
and her daughters, after having treated but indiffer- 
ently well the poor relation fallen so unluckily into 
their hands, now lavished every attention upon the 
elegant and wealthy Mme. Francis Walrey, who was 
paying them a brief visit. 

As to Morton, he was far away from Paris, as she 
had foreseen. On learning that she was correct in this 
impression, Manuela felt a great sense of relief and a 
certain rest and security, while at the same time she 
was conscious of a sharp pang of disappointment. 

After a time the young wife became less commu- 
nicative ; her letters had a certain restraint, and had 
totally lost their former tone of frank gayety. 

‘‘They are not so nice as they were ! ” said Wal- 
rey, to his mother, to whom he was in the habit of 
reading his wife’s letters regularly, regarding them as 
masterpieces of grace and sweetness. 

“ It is only that she has not so much time, my son. 
Besides, I do not see any especial difference, except 
that they are shorter ; that is all.” 

One morning the postman brought at the same 
time with Manuela’s daily letter an envelope that was 
neither perfumed, nor satiny, nor directed in graceful 


REMORSE. 


163 


characters. That is to say, it did not come from Ma- 
nuela, although it was postmarked Paris. Walrey 
opened it carelessly, then suddenly stifled an exclama- 
tion, and read more attentively the brief contents 
consisting of two or three lines of coarse writing. He 
rubbed his eyes as if he could hardly believe what he 
saw, and then read the letter again. 

“ Any bad news ? ” said his mother, much startled. 

At first he made no reply ; then, having moistened 
his parched lips with a glass of water at his side, he 
was able to speak. No — none at all ; ” but his voice 
was strange. 

‘‘ What is it, then ? ” 

“ Nothing, except that I must take the noon train,” 
answered M. Walrey, slowly ; “and I have no time to 
lose.” 

“ The noon train goes to Paris — ” 

“ And it is to Paris that I am going.” 

“ Manuela has sent for you ? ” 

“ No, not at all. It is business — most important 
business.” And he left without another word. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The letter received by Francis Walrey was with- 
out signature ; it contained a simple suggestion that 
he should guard his wife more carefully, adding that 
she was compromising herself most seriously with 
Maurice Morton. And we are forced to admit that 


164 


REMORiiE. 


this anonymous warning, dastardly as it was, was by 
no means calumnious. 

During the second week of Manuela’s sojourn with 
her aunt, Morton returned at a time when he was least 
expected, recalled by the common-place necessity of 
seeing an editor. He called upon Mme. de Clairac, 
with no idea of seeing Manuela. It is possible, had 
he known of her being there, that he would have 
avoided her ; but, having set foot in the house and en- 
tered her presence, he found the temptation too great, 
and ho returned — ^returned, too, to repair the extraor- 
dinary awkwardness of which he, generally so self- 
possessed, was guilty when, on entering Mme. de Clai- 
rac’s salon, he saw Manuela tranquilly seated under the 
lamp, whose soft light fell upon her beauty, which 
was more striking than ever. 

Morton’s name was heard in the silence of the sa- 
lon. Manuela was not in the least disturbed ; she 
greeted her enemy with a calm smile which seemed to 
say: “I am sure of myself now — sure that I no lon- 
ger love you.” She was as amazed as a young soldier 
who finds that he does not flinch under the fire which 
he so dreaded. The perusal of Morton’s book, a month 
previous, had disturbed her infinitely more. But to- 
day emotion was held in check by pride — by a slum- 
bering resentment which had only lain dormant in 
absence, and which the sight of this man, who had 
scorned her, kindled again into a fiercer flame than 
ever. 

Maurice, on the contrary, stood thunderstruck in 
her presence — Maurice, always master of himself — 


REMORSE. 


165 


Maurice, who formerly abused his power of moving 
her by a glance, a word, or a smile. He was timid, 
embarrassed, nailed as it were to the floor, replying 
with great and evident confusion to the commonplace 
words addressed to him by her. It is certain that the 
embarrassment of a clever man of the world is an enor- 
mous homage. He knew this perfectly well, and he 
could not therefore permit her to retain the prestige 
of this great triumph, nor willingly accept defeat for 
himself. Of course it was totally impossible. Be- 
sides, Morton was very curious to study this woman, 
who seemed to him radiant with wonderful attractions. 
It was really like a new country which a stranger had 
to explore. He still remembered Mile, de Chelles — 
remembered her possibly too vividly for his peace of 
mind ; but as yet he knew nothing of Mme. Francis 
Walrey. He considered himself in the light of an 
artist on a voyage of discovery ; but he soon found 
that to the sweet recollections of the past were now 
added the strength and fire of a new-born passion. 

This phenomenon, which suddenly rivets us at the 
feet of a woman whom we have hitherto passed with- 
out lingering, is by no means uncommon, and in nine 
instances out of ten is the result of the marriage of 
that woman. It is unquestionably true that the young 
woman is vastly superior to the young girl, not only by 
reason of her greater ease of manner, mental culture, 
and fluency of speech, from enlarged intercourse with 
the world, but also on account of the development of 
her personal attractions. Manuela seemed to have 
groAvn taller, her beautiful figure more beautiful still; 


166 


REMORSE. 


while in her face there was a tender melancholy, and 
in her words a vague suggestiveness of disenchant- 
ment which made her as interesting and mysterious as 
a sphinx. 

But the great superiority of the young wife over 
the girl whom he had known was that she had learned 
to defend herself against Morton’s attacks. Morton, 
like the majority of men of the world, made it a rule 
of his life never to pervert innocence. He had proved 
this by his very cruelty toward Mile, de Chelles. But 
the situation was no longer the same toward young 
Mme. Walrey. The barrier between them was cer- 
tainly not that of respect for the sacred laws of mar- 
riage — Maurice had never made any pretensions to 
this respect — but merely the obstacle that he had 
raised with his own hands, by giving Manuela such 
deep offense ; and this obstacle, after all, only made 
the temptation greater, by adding the attraction of a 
positive but by no means insurmountable difficulty. 

The avowal so long expected, so ardently desired 
by the young girl — an avowal which in fact she had 
artlessly prompted more than once — Morton made to 
the young woman when alone with her for the first 
time. In the midst of a . cold, constrained conversa- 
tion, he snatched her hand, pressed it passionately to 
his lips, and held it while in a low voice he breathed 
her name : “ Manuela ! ” She started up trembling and 
indignant, protesting against the insult. He knew all 
she could say to him, and anticipated her reproaches by 
interrupting her and accusing himself. 

“Yes, he had known long ago that he loved her. 


REMORSE. 


167 


and he had smothered that love. He was a miserable 
fool then, who doubted himself and doubted others. 
His diseased brain nourished, among other chimeras, 
the false idea than an artist ought not to marry, under 
penalty of seeing his talents wither unused. Alas ! 
he realized his mistake too late. At her side, on the 
contrary, he would have acquired new inspiration, 
natural and spontaneous — ^he would have done nobler 
work. She would have put all his dreams to flight, 
for she would have been the realization of them all. 
Besides, what was glory compared to happiness ? In 
withdrawing himself from a congenial life to devote 
his time to literature, he had condemned himself to 
the most frightful solitude and desolation, which to- 
day he would gladly abandon at almost any price, at 
the price even of that celebrity for which he had made 
such extravagant sacrifices. But now it was too late ; 
and his punishment, horrible as it was, was just and 
merited.” 

Maurice designedly exaggerated his sins toward 
her, rather than palliated them. He abused and black- 
ened himself without mercy, knowing that he who 
confesses his shortcomings, and humiliates himself vol- 
untarily, is raised in the estimation of her who listens 
to him rather than lowered, as is the general belief, 
and that there are few sins which are not obliterated 
by the incomparable merit of a frank confession. 

Seeing that Manuela hesitated, he grew bolder. 
“I ask for one word of pardon and of peace from 
your lips. I have the right to ask this, perhaps, for 
you yourself are not altogether without reproach. 


168 


REMORSE. 


When, deeming myself unworthy of you, renouncing 
you because I loved you, I was unselfish enough to 
abandon you to another, you yielded without objec- 
tion to the suggestion I made ; while I looked on, 
with death in my soul, ready to retract, ready to ex- 
claim, ‘ Do not heed me ; I deceive you and deceive 
myself ! ’ Hardly had I spoken than I wished to with- 
draw my words ; but it was already too late — you had 
disposed of your hand. Why were you so ready to 
forget me ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” interrupted Manuela, with an impulse be- 
yond her control, “ it was not forgetfulness ! ” 

A smile, which he had difficulty in concealing, 
parted his lips. He already knew that it was revenge 
and wounded pride — all the unworthy sentiments 
which he had called to life, that prompted her con- 
duct. Morton was no ordinary actor ; his eloquence 
was convincing as well as pathetic. It was Nature’s 
gift to the artist. A precious gift to him, and a most 
disastrous one to others, was the extraordinary power 
he possessed of imposing even upon himself, while his 
hearers accepted the semi-fictions of his imagination 
for the real language of the heart. 

No one in the world ever had a greater power than 
Maurice of calling up this enthusiasm at will — a power 
which carried great strength at the time, and created 
its own excuse when good sense has dissipated it. 

“ But this woman ? ” stammered Manuela — “ that 
woman with whom I saw you at the theatre ? ” 

Morton’s triumph was certainly complete — the 
lamb itself was holding its throat toward the knife 


REMORSE, 


169 


of the butcher. This retrospective jealousy permitted 
him to take refuge in those tortuous explanations which 
men know how to make most plausible — on the neces- 
sity of dulling their pain, of stifling, if but for a mo- 
ment, and by an unworthy caprice, the memory of an 
absorbing and dangerous passion. 

“To conquer love, they call up the pale, faint 
shadows of love. Useless effort, since disgust and 
satiety so quickly follow ! ” These commonplace 
phrases fell rapidly from Morton’s lips — the more so, 
that this brief infidelity had escaped his memory, with 
many another which had preceded or followed it. 
Merely to recall the name of the rival, the sight of 
whom had been suflicient to drive Manuela to de- 
spair, would have cost him an infinite deal of dif- 
ficulty. 

Manuela, having thus been drawn into listening to 
excuses, and to debates which precede forgiveness, 
could not of course withhold her pardon ; and Maurice 
asked nothing further that day. He knew women too 
well to compromise his victory by needless precipita- 
tion. He postponed until the next day showing her 
that he had a right to be jealous of Walrey. He 
knew in advance that she would end by believing her- 
self to have been in fault toward him. He intended 
to speak to her of the futility of eternal engagements, 
of the emptiness of contracts which undertake to op- 
pose with their paltry shackles that love which should 
be as free and powerful as God himself ! And these 
words he well knew would have their effect, and she 
would be his— his until the day — Ah ! the duration 
8 


170 


REMORSE. 


of that time he could not yet fix ; for he was madly 
in love, now that the spectre of lawful affection no 
longer chilled his transports — now that he could hope 
to snatch the forbidden fruit, the only fruit for which 
he cared — but until the day — when he should have 
grown tired of her. 

This simple plan of Maurice Morton’s was in no 
way interfered with by Mme. de Clairac, who at that 
time was revolving, like the fiy on a coach-wheel, 
around a position in an institute that she patronized, 
for which she had provided a candidate, whose inter- 
ests she was pushing with the illusive notion that this 
choice would be her work and due to her exertions. 
Consequently she was never at home ; she made visits 
every day, and gave constant dinners as an unfailing 
method of conciliating the judges. Besides, having 
fulfilled most conscientiously the role of Argus with 
her orphan relation, she now considered herself 
obliged out of politeness to allow Mme. Walrey en- 
tire freedom of action while under her roof. The 
care with which she avoided all semblance of restraint 
and interference with her niece was, in fact, one way 
of being hospitable. She did not feel herself in any 
way responsible for Manuela’s acts, and owed no ac- 
count of them to M. Walrey ; and, if his wife were 
in Paris without him, it was with his full consent. 
If her aunt showed herself thus lax in her supervision, 
one of Manuela’s cousins was quite ready to supply 
every omission — Mme. Halbronn, who, expecting to 
find Manuela dulled by six months of country life, 
was disagreeably surprised at seeing her more beauti- 


REMORSE. 


171 


ful than ever, and at hearing this opinion frankly ex- 
pressed by all the hahitues of the mansion. To deny 
the great attractions and fascinations of this once 
poor relation was useless. Marthe herself had lost 
instead of gaining in the same space of time. That 
which is called la heaute du diahle — she had never 
had any other — is very fleeting ; and late hours, with 
Herculean social labors, had already dimmed its frail 
brilliancy. Marthe remedied her loss with cosmetics ; 
Manuela needed none. Was it not natural, therefore, 
that Marthe should hate her cousin a little ? She soon 
noticed that the beautiful Mme. Walrey was growing 
very thoughtful ; that Morton never left her side ; 
that the two seemed to be absorbed in each other. 
This was evident to their whole circle, and the indul- 
gent Mme. de Brives whispered with a sigh in her sis- 
ter’s ear, I always predicted that this would end 
badly ! ” An old dislike, lulled and, she had believed, 
appeased, reared its viper-head in that part of the 
belaced and beribboned corsage of Mme. Halbronn 
which covered a supposititious heart. Marthe permit- 
ted herself with Maurice an occasional jest, somewhat 
daring in character, which he tolerated with difficulty ; 
and on a certain day she asked him if he was meditat- 
ing the conquest of Flanders — predicting that he 
would certainly receive as his reward six inches of 
steel manufactured by the husband himself. But the 
fair lady realized the imprudence of her very poor 
joke when she felt the lion’s paw. There was one 
thing which Maurice would not endure with equanim- 
ity — no one should ever intrude on his pleasures or 


172 


REMORSE. 


poach on his manors. If such were ever the case, he 
made his displeasure thoroughly understood. Conse- 
quently he answered Mme. Halhronn with one of those 
covert insults which make a mortal enemy of a wom- 
an, however well disposed she may previously have 
been toward you. 

Maurice made an enormous mistake ; on the very 
next day M. Walrey received the anonymous letter to 
which we have alluded — a letter which affirmed noth- 
ing, but which permitted almost any inference to be 
drawn. In writing it, the denunciator had followed 
the device of her sex — ‘‘ a tooth for a tooth.” 

She had besides, like a spoiled child secretly doing 
a thing which she knew to be wrong, taken great 
pleasure in her act. To write a feigned hand, to com- 
mit all possible faults of orthography upon a coarse 
sheet of paper, to be guilty of that miserable villainy, 
an anonymous letter, struck her as being an excellent 
joke — a joke with a flavor of revenge in it — a joke 
with a suggestion of impropriety which gave her the 
same emotion of pleasure which she had felt, concealed 
in her domino at a hal de V Operay or in the loge grillee 
of a certain caf'e concert of the worst possible repu- 
tation. But for these small crimes she had her hus- 
band’s permission, and to-day she acted without it ; 
and that was only an additional dash of the pepper- 
cruet. 

But here let it be understood that Mme. Halhronn 
believed herself to be honestly seeking to preserve 
the conjugal honor of M. Walrey — to rescue her reck- 
less cousin from the abyss into which she was ready 


REMORSE. 173 

to tlirow herself head first : believed herself, in short, 
to he acting in the sacred interests of virtue. 

Francis Walrey’s first impulse on reading the in- 
famous letter was to start off instantly, without know- 
ing what he intended to do. On the road he said 
to himself : “ She does not love me — she loves an- 
other ; she loved this Morton at the time of our mar- 
riage. I ought to have guessed it, hut she became 
my wife with her own free will, for there was none 
to force her. I cannot understand it ; there is some 
atrocious mystery involved.” The whole thing seemed 
to him, in fact, so incredible that he finally came to 
reject it. Honest, loyal natures invest others with 
their own ingenuousness. The nearer he drew to 
Paris, the more did this black accusation assume the 
appearance of a phantom. “ Revenge and calumny,” 
he said to himself, “ often descend to anonymous let- 
ters ; hut who could hate Manuela, so sweet and so 
inoffensive ? ” 

The good man’s incredulity finally reached a point 
where the thought of the letter gave him no uneasi- 
ness. He began to picture to himself the meeting 
with his wife, when he should see those clear, almost 
infantile eyes uplifted to his, and should hear her say 
in a half -astonished, half -joyous tone, ‘‘ Good heav- 
ens ! what brings you here ? ” When the train 
rushed into the station he had begun to despise him- 
self for his unworthy suspicions and his ridiculous 
credulity. He had fallen into a snare ; happily, his 
mother knew nothing of it, and should never hear of 
his weakness — nor Manuela either. Poor child ! if 


174 


REMORSE. 


she should ever come to know that he had doubted 
her faith and her honor, she would at once withdraw 
from him all her confidence, affection, and esteem ! 

Actuated by the most generous impulses, Walrey 
tore the anonymous letter into a thousand bits and 
threw it to the winds. The cab which he took con- 
veyed him at once to Mme. de Clairac’s, and he 
thought only of what reason he could give for his 
sudden appearance. 

“Madame la Baronne is not at home,” said the 
valet. 

“ But Madame Walrey ? ” 

“ Is in the salon.^^ 

He gave his name to the servant, forbidding him, 
however, to announce it, and passed rapidly through 
the anteroom into a sort of gallery which served as a 
passage-way, and was separated from the famous violet 
salon by a door set with mirrors ; this door parted 
in the middle, and was always wide open. Walrey 
advanced noiselessly toward the door — noiselessly 
because of a thick carpet which covered the floor, and 
also because he stepped more lightly than usual in 
order to surprise his wife, whom he supposed to be 
alone. His heart beat high with pleasure at the idea 
of seeing her again. 

Suddenly he stood still. Inarticulate sounds, broken 
words, of which he caught only one or two — “ Fare- 
well,” “ It must be ! ” in her voice — interrupted by 
vehement protestations — reached his ear. Trembling 
from head to foot, he supported himself against the 
door with one hand, while he contemplated the scene 


REMORSE. 


175 


before him. For the moment he did not dream of 
concealing his presence ; but, had his appearance been 
accompanied with far greater noise, it would not have 
been noticed. At the extreme end of the grand saloriy 
where the daylight hardly penetrated, before a low 
chair standing in one of the cdrners of the chimney, 
was a man prostrate at the feet of a woman, who, 
leaning over him, had buried her weeping face in his 
hair. Walrey saw that, and then saw nothing except 
a colorless gray face — his own — looking at him from 
the mirror with a strange wild look. 

This horrible situation lasted less than a minute, 
after which it seemed to Francis Walrey that cold 
lead ran in his veins instead of blood, and he suddenly 
grew so calm that he seemed to himself to be in a 
state of stupor. 

Detaching himself with an effort from the spot 
whereon it seemed to him that he was chained, he 
walked slowly down the salon. 

Manuela uttered a stifled shriek ; Morton rose to 
his feet precipitately ; and both waited — he very pale 
and with the air of a man who expects to be called to 
account, and Manuela looking as if she were about 
to faint. 

Walrey continued to advance in silence. When 
he was about ten feet from Morton he made a gesture 
which it was impossible for the latter to misunder- 
stand : he was invited to leave the room. Morton 
hesitated ; a look of entreaty from Manuela caused 
him to obey, and he passed through the door. The 
surprised lover, who makes good his retreat in the 


176 


REMORSE. 


face of an outraged husband, leaving his accomplice 
to bear all the brunt of their mutual misdeeds, has 
always a most pitiful appearance. Maurice Morton 
looked no better than any other man under similar 
circumstances; all his art and talent did him but little 
service on this occasion. 

When Walrey was alone with his wife, the stony 
look of his face, on which a moment before nothing 
could have been read, changed as suddenly as if a mask 
had dropped from it, and became all at once tragic 
— terrible ! The man of the people reappeared. One 
gesture, and Manuela cowered before him ; she cov- 
ered her face and thought, “ He is about to kill me ! ” 

He raised his arm, but the hand simply fell heavily 
on his wife’s shoulder, holding her in a brutal grasp 
which crushed her like the teeth of a vise. 

“You are mine !” he said; “you belong to me, 
whether you will or no. And I shall take you away 
with me. I shall watch you well, and never again 
shall you set your foot in Paris.” 

This threat had nothing in itself so very terrible, 
and yet it crushed Manuela like a sentence of death. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

[fEAGMENTS FEOM MANUELA’s mUENAL.] 

“ A TEAR — almost a whole year — since that fright- 
ful day. A summer without sun to me — a pale-gray 
autumn — a winter wrapped in dense fogs and drench- 


REMORSE. 


177 


ing, pitiless rains ! And now comes the spring-time 
to quicken all things to life — save me ! 

“Years will go by without bringing me aught save 
an ever-growing feeling of discouragement. I am 
chilled to the heart by the coldness of my husband ; 
his very look freezes me when I chance to meet it. 
To be buried forever in this spot, which I loathe ! 
And I am but twenty, and I should like to live ! 

“Yesterday, not knowing how to occupy myself, 
I read the ‘ Inferno ; ’ the variety of the tortures 
filled me with envy ! Then I read the episode of La 
Pia, which always touches me ; but now it is my own 
story which I read. She was happier than I : the 
marshes killed her, while I, alas, resist them ! Ah ! 
the horrible tedium of this colorless horizon, before 
which passes only an occasional figure, to which I 
am indifferent. My health and my youth only in- 
sure me additional years of torture. Would that I 
were dead — what I endure is worse than death ! Who 
will deliver me ? Every night I utter that cry of sup- 
plication as I wring my hands, with only blank silence 
for a reply ! 

“ It is my fault. Did I not implore him to run no 
risk for me ? He is far away, because I asked him to 
go, and I love him — I love him more than ever ; for 
his sorrow must be great — sorrow at being compelled 
to abandon me amid all the shame which he drew 
down upon my head — constrained by my command so 
briefly, so almost harshly expressed ! I am watched 
and guarded on .every side — I am in prison ! Brought 
here by my judge and my jailer, I had but one idea — 


178 


REMORSE. 


to write to Morton. Ten times I started off to town, 
to the post-office — for I could trust no one — and ten 
times I was followed. And, between these unsuccess- 
ful attempts, what hours of suspense and anguish I 
spent ! Every passing footstep I took for Morton’s ; 
I fancied him disguised and seeking to see me. I 
wanted to say to every stranger I met on the high- 
way, ‘ He is there, half concealed ! ’ At night I 
thought I heard stealthy steps in the court-yard below, 
the grating of a ladder at my balcony, a stifled voice 
calling me. I would start from my bed, and with 
naked feet rush to the window. It was the wind — it 
was my fancy. And every day the same illusion, and 
every night the same sleeplessness. I felt myself 
going mad ! 

“Then M. Walrey said to me, ‘ You wish to write. 
Very well, write ! I will not hinder you ; only, when 
your letter is written, hand it to me unsealed.’ It 
Was the first time that he had made any allusion to 
that which he undoubtedly calls my crime against him, 
and since then he has never referred to it. I could 
do nothing else — I had no other way — so I wrote all 
that was essential : ‘ I forbid you to make any at- 
tempt to see me, or to write to me ! ’ And I could 
not even add, ‘ for your own sake,’ or, ‘ for the sake of 
our love ! ’ for the words would be seen by my jailer ! 
I infer that this letter was sent, since his obedience 
has been so scrupulous. How can he obey me so 
strictly ! I almost regret the time when I lived in such 
terror, for then, at all events, the terror was mingled 
with hope. 


REMORSE. 


179 


‘‘ My crime — did I say crime ? Ah, well, it is only 
too certain that in his eyes I am a worthless, lost 
woman. And yet if he only knew the truth ! At 
the very moment when he learned what he regarded 
as my treachery, I had said farewell for ever to him 
whom I had resolved never to see again. I had learned 
to fear my weakness, the weakness of my own heart. 
I determined to fly from temptation. Often, when 
Walrey’s silent condemnation weighs too heavily upon 
me, I am tempted to implore him to listen to me — to 
say to him, ‘ Let me speak to you once. I am guilty 
— yes, guilty without doubt — ^hut less so than you 
suppose.’ But his cold, severe face stops me. I am 
certain that he would say, ‘Evil is evil, as good is 
good — there is no half way in either — there is no pos- 
sible compromise. The first step is quite as had as the 
last.’ This is what he would say, this is what he 
thinks ; I see it, and I know it. 

“ Never, however, does he utter a reproach. I seem 
to be like a stranger in his eyes ; and yet the hand of the 
master makes itself felt occasionally, when I attempt 
to try my wings. He is a vigilant guardian, a most 
indefatigable one, but appears to be entirely disinter- 
ested. In the exercise of his tyranny he seems simply 
to be obeying a strong sense of duty. He evidently 
says to himself, ‘ This woman, who bears my name, 
shall never have an opportunity of sullying it. She 
shall have no more dangerous intimacies. She has 
no idea how to conduct herself, and I shall keep an 
eye upon her.’ Yes, this is precisely what he says, 
coldly and impassively, even with a certain disdain. 


180 


REMORSE. 


He treats me like a child who, having no responsibility 
for its own acts, requires careful surveillance. 

“ In the presence of others he is toward me precisely 
what he has always been — quiet, attentive, and almost 
affectionate. His mother even has no suspicion that 
all is not pleasant between my husband and myself ; 
and yet she is very clear-sighted. The other day, as 
I passed the door of the salon, I heard Mme. Wal- 
rey say : 

“ ‘ Manuela is very thin and looks wretched ; I 
am anxious about her health. Have you not noticed 
that she seems very much out of spirits ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ho,’ he answered, ‘ I see no difference.’ 

“ ‘You must take care of her, Francis ; it is your 
duty. She has no one but ourselves. You are her 
father as well as her husband. If she has certain 
faults — ’ 

“‘She has no faults whatever,’ said M. Walrey 
hastily ; ‘ but the climate possibly does not suit her. 
She was born in a sunny land, you know, and the air 
of this place is always a little sharp. I cannot help 
that. And yet,’ he added after a brief pause, ‘ if she 
were to travel — ’ 

“ ‘ But your business, your interests here,’ inter- 
rupted his mother, always armed with shrewd practi- 
cal sense, ‘ You must think of them. Ho, the climate 
is well enough ; there is nothing unhealthy in it, par- 
ticularly in summer. What a pity it is, Francis, that 
you have no child ! ’ 

“ My husband abruptly left the room by another 
door, which he shut violently after him. 


REMORSE. 


181 


‘‘ The last words uttered by his mother startled me 
and dwelt in my mind. I am convinced that the poor 
woman explains all my melancholy by the theory that 
it is caused by the regret which I ought to feel at not 
being a mother. It is a great disappointment to her. 
Her dream had been that in her old age she would be 
surrounded by her grandchildren. She has said this 
to me many times. I notice, too, that she has aged 
very much of late. Her mind, formerly so entirely 
at peace, now seems to be at work and troubling her. 
She looks at me sometimes as if about to address to 
me a question or an entreaty ; but I am blind and 
deaf, and she says nothing. It is better so. 

“ Yesterday she came to me where I sat in bitter 
thought, looking vaguely from the window, touched 
my brow almost madly with her lips, and whispered : 

‘ God, my dear daughter, and our blessed Sav- 
iour ! ’ ” 

“ I understood her. Whatever our sorrows and mis- 
fortunes, she meant to say, God ought to be an ever- 
present consolation. It was with His aid that I sup- 
ported the first great sorrow of my life — the death of 
my father, so quickly followed by that of my poor 
mother. In those days I believed in Him. My mother 
had imbued me with that ardent religious fervor which 
she inherited from her Spanish ancestors. Her piety 
was almost child-like in its unquestioning faith, and 
burned with as pure a flame as that of the small lamp 
which she lighted each day at the feet of the Madonna 
before she recited her rosary. This Catholic faith, 
which she planted in my soul, I brought intact across 


182 


REMORSE. 


tlie ocean. It received, however, some severe shocks 
in the salon of my aunt, who prided herself on the 
liberality of her views. She went to mass, however, 
with great regularity ; for ‘ to be remiss in such ob- 
servances,’ she said, ‘was very bad style.’ 

“ JVly religious faith, I think, was more killed by my 
aunt’s worldly piety than by all the leaven of skepti- 
cism which lurked amid the new ideas and opinions 
offered in that house as food to my mind. When I 
began to think seriously of a marriage in which my 
heart had no share, the guardian angel who had 
hovered over me during all my childhood and youth 
withdrew his guiding hand ; and now, in our great 
Flemish church, I no longer feel any consoling presence. 
The church is as bare as any Protestant edifice, and 
obscured by huge black marble pillars. Is it empty, 
or is it that the Most High refuses to signify Flis 
presence to a heart so rebellious and undisciplined as 
mine ? 

“ The cure, a most excellent, honest man, but a very 
simple one, is my mother-in-law’s most intimate friend. 

*I see him only too often. If I had never seen his full 
red face, if I could forget his wearisome jokes at which 
no one ever smiles except himself, his childish enjoy- 
ment of the luxuries of the table — all his little ways, 
in short, which are innocent enough certainly, but 
which diminish his dignity as a priest — I should go 
and throw myself at his knees in the confessional, if 
it were only to escape from this silence — this intoler- 
able constraint — this repression, which becomes daily 
more hard to bear. But the cure would not under- 


REMORSE. 


183 


stand me ; he would talk to me of repentance, and, in 
spite of my despair, I do not, I cannot repent ! 

“A great sin, although uncommitted, was in my 
heart — its shadow still lingers there — and yet I feel 
no compunction. It seems to me that my real fault 
was of an earlier date ; that my great fault lay in giv- 
ing my consent to this marriage. Maurice reproached 
me for it, but had he the right ? I ask this ques- 
tion of myself now, in my solitude, far from the 
sound of that persuasive voice. Was it not he who 
advised, nay, who urged my marriage ? But I should 
not have listened to his counsel ; I should have been 
faithful to him without any thought of the future ; I 
should have sacrificed everything — the world, myself 
— to him. I was my own mistress then ; I was as 
free as the wind that blows. To-day I reason like a 
woman who knows and who wills. At that time I 
knew nothing, I was nothing ; the most paltry con- 
siderations influenced me. I was unhappy with my 
aunt. 


“ A letter from Marthe, full of protestations of affec-* 
tion. No, I am not duped by them. Maurice’s name ! 
Ah ! good heavens ! I will not believe one word of 
what she says. She would like me to think him for- 
getful, faithless, giving himself up to the world, to 
pleasure, to every fleeting caprice. I cannot finish 
this letter, which stabs me with every word, and yet 
I read on and on, to the very end. And now other 
agonies are added to those I have already endured 
— jealousy and suspicion. I repel them, but they 


184 


REMORSE. 


haunt me with baleful persistency. No, I will not do 
him this great injustice. He loves me, and no one 
shall rob me of that consolation. 

“And yet at times I doubt ; but these doubts I 
confide only to the pages of my journal. In these 
I record all my thoughts during the long, weary 
nights, when tears keep me from sleeping. At first I 
wrote letters, but they bore no address, for to whom 
could I send them ? And now I write page after page 
without other aim than the momentary relief ob- 
tained by a sick person who sighs and groans. I 
throw the blurred pages carelessly into my portfolio, 
where are locked up a daily-increasing store of regrets 
and prayers — futile rebellions and heart-sick longings. 
Some time the portfolio will hold no more, and then I 
shall burn them all. Or possibly — who can say ? — I 
may send to Maurice all their dead ashes — the ashes 
of my poor burned-out heart ! ” 

Manuela did not suffer alone. The sufferings of 
Francis Walrey, although they were nowhere in- 
* scribed — for he, poor man, found no comfort in such 
an egotistical, romantic resource — the sufferings of 
his manly heart, blighted by an incurable wound, 
were as poignant as those of his wife. Only, with this 
Colossus, his physique offered a more effectual resist- 
ance. He was neither paler nor thinner. The ac- 
tivity of his daily occupations endowed him with a 
most excellent appetite, and enabled him to sleep 
soundly. His workmen concluded, however, from a 
certain sharpness in his voice that was new to them. 


REMORSE. 


185 


and from his greater strictness with them, that their 
‘‘ master had his troubles,” and spent a great deal of 
time in their attempts to discover them. 

“It is strange,” they said, “to see him so suspi- 
cious. He never used to be so ! ” 

One day, when Father Fearless had some excuse 
for a delay in some work, M. Walrey interrupted him 
rudely. “ I do not believe one word,” he said, “ not 
one word ! ” 

“ You forget, monsieur, that I never lie,” replied 
the old stoker, reddening to the very tips of his ears. 

“ Indeed ! ” answered M. Walrey. “ So much the 
better for you, then ; for everybody lies — there is 
nothing but falsehood and treachery around us ! ” 

That which had smitten him most severely in this 
shipwreck of his domestic happiness was the sudden 
revelation of a thing with which he had never before 
come in contact— treachery. Deception hitherto had 
seemed to him an impossibility. He had that faith 
in others which is a characteristic of those who are 
themselves true and honest. And now — what torture 
it was ! — he believed in no one ! Manuela was wise * 
in seeking no explanation. Nothing she could have 
said would have scared away the hideous spectre low- 
ering upon his hearthstone. But as to the rest she 
was mistaken ; he would have excused nothing, but 
he would have pardoned everything — not without a 
struggle possibly — but he would have pardoned every- 
thing in exchange for one word, which was never 
spoken. 

Francis Walrey ’s sentiments were not regulated 


186 


REMORSE. 


either by education or the usages of the world. 
Wounded pride held but a small place among them ; 
he would have found but a poor satisfaction in chal- 
lenging Morton as “ the laws of honor ” dictated. Mor- 
ton was of no consequence in his eyes. Nor did he 
trouble himself to wonder what the man whom he 
found at his wife’s feet thought of the husband who 
had been so deceived. This was all of little import. 
He did not even hate him. A Parisian, an artist, 
could by no possibility be honest enough to respect 
the property of others — and this had always been this 
rustic’s opinion of Parisians and artists. But Manue- 
la ! Manuela was his accomplice, the Manuela whom 
in his mind he had elevated above all other human 
beings — placed on a throne of almost ideal purity. 
Could it be possible that Manuela should fall from 
that serene height ? 

The horrible shock of this discovery had stunned 
him at first. Then, while believing himself utterly 
crushed, he was all at once seized by a paroxysm of 
furious anger. Manuela remembered this — she re- 
membered his violence, his almost brutality — and for 
some time he never moved suddenly in her presence, 
or took a step toward her, that she did not tremble 
and turn as deadly pale as if before her executioner. 
She had been afraid of him ; that fear had now passed 
away. He saw this with thankfulness. He loved her 
still, more tenderly than ever, but he knew not how 
to tell her so, how to prove it to her, how to put 
an end to an estrangement that each day increased. 
The separation between them was complete, although 


REMORaE. 


187 


they lived under the same roof. Walrey saw his wife 
only at the table, at which it was not their custom to 
linger long ; and immediately on rising she would 
retire to her room under pretext of fatigue, while he 
would go out to smoke a cigar. But, long after the 
cigar was extinguished, he would still pace the court- 
yard, watching the light from her windows, and won- 
dering what she could be doing there ; for her lamp 
often burned until daylight. He was sometimes 
tempted to go up and surprise her. “ Ho, I should 
find her with him, or rather with the thoughts of 
him ! ” he would add, with a shudder. 

Sometimes the mere thought of Maurice brought 
on a new crisis of jealous fury. At other times he 
would say, as his feet rung upon the stones, ‘‘ What 
right had I to marry her ! I was too hasty by far. 
I remember now that her aunt, who may not have 
loved her as much as I supposed, was in haste to get 
rid of her. Had I, a man of my age, any right to take 
possession of her — I so plain, and she so young and so 
beautiful? Ho. I thought only of myself, of my 
own happiness, without remembering that the happi- 
ness of husband and wife is inseparable. But I thought 
I could make her happy, and I was simply mad to in- 
dulge in such an idea. I had but to look at myself. 
We were of two distinct species — this exquisite child 
and an old bachelor — this high-born lady and this la- 
boring man’s son. Think of harnessing together a 
beast of burden and a race-horse ! Fool that I was ! 
but, having done this, I should have guided her gently, 
carefully, skillfully. I should never have allowed her 


188 


REMORSE. 


to become tbe victim of ennui. But I was stupid and 
awkward after having been selfish. Truly, all the 
blame is mine — all the fault on my own side. And 
yet I abused her, ill-treated and terrified her. I should 
have said — ” 

Walrey had often got thus far, but he never had 
been able to decide what he should have said. He was 
neither eloquent nor ingenious. But what would he 
not give to have been able to make her understand 
that it depended upon her alone to efface the past, and 
that the future was by no means bare of promise ! 

He slowly mounted the staircase. Dare I go in ? ” 
he said to himself. ‘‘ I am unwilling to terrify her 
again, but can there ever be the old union again? 
Without doubt, after all that has passed, I can never 
be her husband again, nor she my wife ; but we can at 
least be friends, and perhaps later — who knows ? — ” 

Arrived at the last stair he stopped, his heart in 
his throat, divided between the desire of taking the 
one step more which would bring him to that door 
under which a thread of light appeared and the fear 
of finding himself greeted with some movement of 
terror or aversion. Ho, he dared not run the risk. 
She loved another, and he, the obstacle, the tyrant, 
could only offend her by any step, however well meant, 
which he might take. 

“ Heither love nor friendship would she accept of 
me,” he said to himself. “ The only thing left for me 
to do is to keep myself in the background as much as 
possible, to withdraw from her path. If I could only 
know what I might do for her, to make her less un- 


REMORSE. 


189 


happy ! ” He believed that he had found that out. 
‘‘ Yes,” he said, “ I know I must never intrude upon 
her ! ” 

At that very moment Manuela fancied that she 
heard Morton’s steps on the gravel walk below, and 
that he was coming to deliver her. 

Walrey crept down the stairs with more precau- 
tion than he had mounted them. The next day he 
had more courage, and formed new projects, which his 
timidity, his self -distrust, and the keen sting of his 
fancied wrongs, all combined to frustrate. 

In this way, twenty times at least, he checked him- 
self when on the point of proposing to Manuela to 
take her far away, to begin a new life in a new world. 
But his mother’s common-sense intervened, as we have 
seen, to recall him to reason when he forgot all the 
disasters which might ensue while he devoted himself 
to the conquest of his wife’s heart. 

The longer the present position of things continued, 
the more it threatened to be without a termination. 
He realized this with a sense of despair. In his dreams 
he saw his wife playing with the fair-haired children 
of whom his mother had spoken, and he awoke with 
the groan of the convict, who, consoled with the fleet- 
ing illusions of the night, awakens at dawn to take 
up the chain which he finds heavier than ever. 


190 


REMORSE. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

To put one’s thoughts on paper, even for one’s own 
eyes, is a most perilous thing, as Manuela soon learned 
to her cost. 

She was onemorning in the little wood behind the 
house. We give the pretentious name of wood, with 
some hesitation, to the small clump of trees ; hut in 
fact the slightest shade was so rare in that neighbor- 
hood that this title was unhesitatingly bestowed upon 
the group of old oaks which reared their massive domes 
above the underbrush through which M. Walrey had 
ordered narrow paths to be cut, intersecting each other. 
It was Manuela’s favorite walk. All these paths termi- 
nated at a common point, on a turfy bank, where the 
young wife sat for hours at a time, with her embroid- 
ery, at which she worked with fitful industry. The 
low branches and foliage were so thick that she could 
see neither the muddy waters of the river nor the 
smoke from the works, nor the country beyond, which, 
with its innumerable fields of beet, looked like a vast 
vegetable garden. The dense green walls about Mme. 
Walrey were absolutely without an opening. In this 
fresh, sweet oasis she could fancy herself far away 
from “ the useful ” under any of its forms of indus- 
try or culture. She had come slowly along the path 
toward her customary seat, stopping at every step or 
two to breathe the delicious woody odors brought out 
by the August sun under which the dewy leaves 


REMORSK 


191 


would soon crisp and curl, or to watch the giddy dance 
of small insects in a slanting ray of sunshine, or to 
gather a spray of clematis or honeysuckle, or to listen 
to the warble of a bird ; after which she would resume 
her walk, her eyes perhaps full of tears, for there is 
nothing which makes one realize the intense loneliness 
and sadness that may exist in the human heart so much 
as the hum of insects, the trill of a happy bird, and 
warmth and sunshine. 

A bending bough concealed the bank of turf until 
she came directly upon it, when she was most dis- 
agreeably surprised to find it occupied. Generally, 
every one respected this retreat, which by common con- 
sent had been given over to the solitary occupation and 
meditations of young Mme. Walrey. The intruder 
looked like a beggar, with his bundle hung on the end 
of a long stick, his unshorn beard, and his dusty 
garments. One of his feet was bleeding from a cut 
through an old shoe. At the sound of Manuela’s foot- 
fall, he rose and took off the straw hat whose ragged 
brim shaded his face. 

“ You do not know me ? ” he said. 

That haggard face was indeed strangely altered by 
eighteen months of miserable poverty — such poverty 
as effaces in humanity all individuality, all trace of 
original characteristics — pride, beauty, youth itself. 
A contest of this kind, if continued more than a cer- 
tain length of time, leaves its mark forever more ; 
but Manuela, after a brief moment, recognized a cer- 
tain smile that faintly flickered over the worn features 
before her, and a familiar look in his eyes. 


192 


REMORSE. 


Pierre Li6ven ! I thought you were very far 
from here.” 

“ Yes, I was far enough away only a few days ago. 
I come now from Belgium, all the way on foot. I 
have looked for work everywhere and failed to find it; 
or rather, if I find it, I am quickly dismissed again. 
The had character which M. Walrey has given me had 
preceded me apparently everywhere I went.” 

Seeing that Manuela had no intention of lingering 
to hear his words, he detained her with an entreating 
gesture. “It was starvation that brought me here, 
reluctant as I was to appear in these rags in the pres- 
ence of — of those who knew me in better days ; and 
I have determined ” — he imparted to this word an im- 
perative emphasis which sounded like a menace — “ I 
am resolved to demand work from M. Walrey.” 

“ It looks as if this lazy fellow,” thought Manuela, 
“ were disposed to treat me again to a dissertation on 
the rights of labor.” But she moved on without mak- 
ing any reply. The sight of Lieven disturbed her 
always more or less, exciting both fear and discom- 
fort. 

“ I have only just arrived,” continued the American, 
barring her passage. “ When I tried to see him, he 
avoided me ; but I shall find some means to make him 
hear me. He has no right to allow me to die of hun- 
ger. I came to this spot now to see you, as I heard 
you came here every morning.” 

“You want me to speak to my husband?” said 
Manuela. 

“You? Do you think I wish you to ask his 


REMORSE. 


193 


compassion for me? By no means. No, it is not 
that ! ” 

Manuela looked around to find the best way of es- 
cape. He surprised her furtive glance. ‘‘Have no 
fear,” he said, with a bitter smile. “ I know very well 
that I inspire disgust under these leprous garments 
and he touched his dirty rags with evident disgust. 
“I have no intention of making a ridiculous scene. 
I know the curse that clings to poverty ; I understand 
and must resign myself to it until the present order of 
things is changed. It will change, perhaps, with time, 
and soon, possibly — who knows ! The moment when 
it will not be a crime for a poor man to be endowed 
with the passions of humanity may be nearer at hand 
than we imagine. The hour of revenge is close upon 
us, and then let them look out for themselves — those 
classes who boast to-day of their privileges ! ” 

Formerly, when he uttered these pretentious tirades, 
these commonplace threats, born of his desultory fool- 
ish reading and reveries, Rolling-Stone had the air of 
an enthusiast fascinated by his chimeras. Now he 
looked more like a madman with a fixed idea — and a 
madman, too, whom it would require but little opposi- 
tion to render furious. 

Suddenly he made a gesture as if to repulse the 
untimely ideas which assailed him. “ But that is not 
what I wished to say to you. This is why I came.” 

And the American pulled from the folds of his 
shirt a crumpled sheet of letter-paper which was 
covered with delicate writing. 

“You lost this ; I restore it to you.” 

9 


194 


REMORSE. 


He spoke very slowly, with his eyes fixed on hers. 

“ Where did you get this paper ? ” said Manuela, 
snatching it from his hands and turning very pale. 

“ I got it nowhere ; I found it fluttering down 
from your window.” 

She gave him a quick, scrutinizing look, then ran 
over the almost illegible lines — blotted by her tears as 
by rain-drops. It was a leaf of her journal. She 
remembered when she had written it — the preceding 
week, one warm night when the atmosphere was 
heavy and charged with electricity. Hardly able to 
breathe, she had thrown the window wide open. Sud- 
denly an unexpected breeze extinguished her candle 
and blew her papers in every direction. She supposed 
that she had picked them all up, but while she was 
looking for a match the gust had carried one into the 
garden. 

She read the following words as this recollection 
passed through her mind : 

“A year has elapsed — an entire year — and that 
frightful day ; and all these weary days have passed 
without bringing me any solace. hTo, no, my husband 
could never imagine such atrocious agony. The thrust 
of a dagger would be far better. A place I detest — 
a life I abhor ! Who will deliver me ? ” 

And she drew a long breath. The accident might 
have been irreparable — it might have placed her secret 
in the hands of this man — the secret of her unhappy, 
guilty love. But from these words he could gather 
nothing except that she was most unhappy. At first 
she made a shallow attempt at disowning the paper. 


REMORSE, 


195 


Tearing it in a thousand pieces and throwing them to 
the winds of heaven, Manuela scornfully said, “Why 
do you come to me with this paper ? It is not mine.” 

“Then why have you taken possession of it? 
Why did you destroy it ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, while he 
continued to look at her in silence ; then Pierre Lieven 
spoke again : “ You know — for I told you one day, 
that I belonged to you body and soul — that I was your 
slave — I, who never served any one willingly in my 
life ! — What I said to you then, that night, I repeat 
to-day — I swear it ! ” 

“Thank you,” interrupted Manuela, in a tone 
which repelled the services offered with such emphatic 
solemnity. “ I shall never need to put your devotion 
to the test.” 

“But my discretion! Would you not purchase 
that?” 

Mechanically she felt for her purse. 

“ By a kind word,” he said, with mingled indigna- 
tion and entreaty ; “ that is the only aid I could pos- 
sibly accept from you.” 

“ I know very well,” said Manuela, “ that you have 
a good heart and a noble soul ; but, in offering you 
help at a time when you are pressed for money, I had 
no intention of giving you any offense.” 

And, thus saying, she turned away. The appari- 
tion of the American had forever spoiled the place in 
her eyes — the only place anywhere about which pleased 
her ; and then this adventure of the lost page from 
her journal — 


196 


REMORSE. 


He knows that I am wretched,” she repeated to 
herself, “ and that is far too much ; hut fortunately he 
knows no more.” 

“Whether she desires it or not,” thought Lieven, 
“ justice shall be done ; and, out of love for her, I will 
be her avenger at least, if I can be nothing more ! ” 

One trembles to think to what love, that divine 
sentiment, may in a hardened nature be transformed. 
He looked after her with infatuated, but saddened 
eyes. He watched her tall, slender figure, with her 
sweeping white drapery, alternately in light and 
shadow, as she moved slowly through the dusky 
shade of the trees. When he lost sight of her he re- 
seated himself upon the bank, his two hands clasping 
his knee, and his head bowed in profound thought. 
If Manuela had but divined his thoughts — if she had 
even suspected that this discovery of her sorrows 
gave an additional motive for violence to this man, 
whose evil passions were rapidly growing beyond the 
possibility of restraint — she would, we fancy, have 
infinitely preferred that chance should have made the 
American master of her secret in all its ramifications 
— her secret which, at that very moment, she was 
congratulating herself on having hidden from him 
with such success. Although Manuela had not the 
smallest notion of the rapid growth in an impure soil 
of a seed carelessly or accidentally dropped, she yet, 
impelled by some vague fear and uneasiness, went at 
once to her husband to warn him. 

“ Pierre Lieven,” she said, “ is back here.” 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “ he came several days ago. 


REMORSE. 


197 


and I shall be compelled to order him away if he does 
not soon go of his own accord. I have all the evi- 
dence I require to justify me in the expulsion of this 
incendiary. Have you seen him? Did he dare to 
speak to you ? ” 

“ I think he wishes to go back to the rolling-mill.” 

“ To bring back disorder and anarchy with him ? ” 

“ He can find no work.” 

‘‘ I will wager that he has looked for none. If, 
however — But I was written to from Belgium in 
regard to him, and of course could say nothing that 
was good or in his favor. To take him on again 
would be a fearful risk. I cannot believe in his prom- 
ises, for he never yet has kept one ; and, if I cannot 
trust him myself, how is it possible for me to recom- 
mend him to others — he who is indolent, a promoter 
of strikes, and a pr-eacher of exploded socialistic 
ideas ? ” 

“ And yet — ” 

“ Do you want me to take him, then ? Ah, well ! 
I am sorry to refuse you; but you have no idea, of the 
role he has played here with us. The other men are 
all leagued against him as against a mad dog. To 
show the least indulgence toward him would be an 
act of pitiable weakness.” 

‘‘ But he seems so poor — so crushed and despair- 
ing.” 

Let us reserve our pity for those misfortunes 
which are not merited,” interrupted her husband, 
sternly. 

Manuela dropped her eyes, and forgot Pierre Lie- 


198 


REMORSE. 


ven, while she meditated sadly on her husband’s last 
words. Misfortunes, then, which were merited in- 
spired him with no pity whatever. Unquestionably 
her own were well deserved ; consequently, the infer- 
ence was obvious that he felt no compassion for her. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“Help ! Murder ! ” This terrible cry rang through 
the courtyard of the works, uttered by the stentorian 
voice of old Fearless, and the cry was followed by 
others and by wild confusion. Manuela ran to her 
window. She saw the workmen rushing out of the 
forges, from every shed, and all hurrying toward a 
separate butr small building which was M. Walrey’s 
private office, where he kept his papers, safe, etc., and 
where he saw all those persons who came to him on 
business. As this day was pay-day, he had even spent 
a part of the evening there. 

Upon the threshold an overseer held the crowd 
back. The confused turmoil of voices — a hundred all 
talking at once — ascended to Manuela’s ears, but not 
one w^ord could she distinguish ; yet she saw that 
something terrible had happened. What possible 
event could have aroused those phlegmatic Flemish 
natures to this degree, and so deranged the regularity 
of the human machinery, whose movements could be 
correctly divined at any given hour of the day ? The 
workshops continued to disgorge their dusky crowd. 


REMORSE. 


199 


all talking and gesticulating, all in the greatest possi- 
ble excitement. 

Soon a distant shout was heard, and there was the 
clatter of a horse’s feet galloping away in the direc- 
tion of the town. Without knowdng what she dread- 
ed, Manuela hurried down-stairs, crossed the yard and 
the road, asking as she went, “ What is the matter ? 
What has happened ? ” Utter silence greeted her as 
the ranks of the operatives slowly opened before her. 
She still went on, her crisp ribbons rustling in the soft 
breeze, and the laces of her peignoir sweeping the 
ground — her eyes big with terror, questioning one after 
another of those rough faces, which seemed, under 
their masks of coal-dust, to look upon her with infi- 
nite compassion. No one answered her. Only when 
she was close at the door of the office. Fearless threw 
himself before her, his cap in his hand, pale as death. 
“ No, madame ! ” he cried — ‘‘ no, you cannot go in 
there ! ” 

From afar off came distant shouts. ‘‘ Murder ! 
help ! ” 

‘‘ My husband ! ” she gasped — “ my husband ! ” 
She could not say another word ; her eyes were wide- 
ly distended. Then, seizing Fearless by the arm, she 
found strength to murmur, in a hoarse whisper, 
“ Murder, do they say ? Who has been murdered ? ” 
It was needless to tell her ; by this time she knew it 
was Pierre Lieven who had killed her husband. Once 
again she heard the voice of the wretch whispering in 
her ear, ‘‘Yes, my revenge is near!” and “I will 
serve you in spite of yourself ; I belong to you, body 


200 


REMORSE. 


and soul ! ” It seemed that one brief flash of light- 
ning cast its lurid glare on all, and that in that light 
she saw the truth — a terrible truth, which accused her 
and made her Lieven’s accomplice ! Had she not, in 
fact, cursed her fate, and cried, “ Who will deliver 
me ? ” He had heard the cry, and in obedience to it 
had delivered her. Turning toward the crowd of 
men, she opened her lips ; she tried to say to them, 
“ You do not understand ; it is I — I who guided the 
arm which struck your master ! ” But her lips uttered 
not a sound, and she fell unconscious into the arms 
which opened on all sides to receive her. 

‘‘ The poor lady ! ” said one. 

“ What shall we do with her ? ” said others. 

At this instant M. Evelin, the old family physician, 
appeared in the doorway of the office. M. Evelin did 
not see Mme. Walrey. “ He breathes,” he said to the 
operatives — “he breathes, and that is all I can say. I 
have made an examination ; — good heavens ! ” broke 
out the physician, going quickly to the side of the 
young wife. “ Why did you not tell me that she was 
here, and why did you let her come?” He was, 
notwithstanding his age, a robust man, of athletic 
stature. He took Manuela in his arms as he would 
have done a child, and bore her toward the house. 

An hour later the public prosecutor appeared, and 
with him the judge, who immediately commenced an 
examination. They entered the office, where nothing 
had been touched. The wounded man lay on a mat- 
tress with his head on the knees of his aged mother, 
who, stunned by the shock, prayed mechanically. On 


REMORSE. 


201 


the ground lay a discharged pistol. There was no 
indication of a robbery ; the safe was intact. The 
assassin’s motive was evidently revenge. All the 
workmen on the place recognized the pistol ; it be- 
longed to Lieven, who had himself shown it only a 
few days before to one of his old comrades, saying, 
“ If the worst comes to the worst, I have this ! ” The 
man supposed he meant suicide, particularly as the 
American added, ‘‘ You see, for a long time life has 
been a burden to me.” 

All those who had met Lieven roaming around the 
works had noticed his excitement ; they had even 
spoken of it to their master, telling him that they 
were really afraid, and thought Lieven was mad; still 
Walrey had only shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 
But the most positive testimony was elicited from 
Fearless. He had been much astonished that evening 
to see Pierre Lieven in M. Walrey’s office. Li4ven 
was at that time calm enough, and M. Walrey was 
writing. He could not say, however, whether the 
man had entered the office with the permission of his 
master, or had simply walked in, as the door at this 
season of the year was always wide open. 

It was certain, however, that Lieven had not been 
at all events, ordered out, for he himself had lingered 
at the door and asked if his master needed anything. 
Somewhat anxious. Fearless had continued to walk up 
and down in front of the office, waiting until his mas- 
ter should call him. I^o angry voices had reached his 
ear. A few words he had heard, however : Lieven 
begged that M. Walrey would take him back to work, 


202 


REMORSE. 


and M. Walrey replied, “No, it is impossible; you are 
wasting your breath.” 

Then Lieven said suddenly : 

“ Once more — you will not ? ” 

Fearless supposed he was going, for these words 
were not said angrily ; but suddenly came a discharge 
of the pistol. He rushed into the office. Lieven had 
had time to leap through the rear-window, which 
opened on the high-road. He wanted to follow him, 
but he could not leave M. Walrey, who lay in a stream 
of blood, and his first cares were due to him. 

Others among the workmen, attracted by his cries, 
gave chase to the murderer, who was by this time far 
in advance. He undoubtedly expected, before any 
warning could be given, to reach the train which left 
for Namur just about that hour, and thus cross into 
Belgium in the twinkling of an eye. 

Only a few moments more, and he would have suc- 
ceeded in his plan ; he was arrested just as he was 
stepping upon the train. While the investigation was 
going on at the works, the assassin was subjected to 
his preliminary examination. 

On seeing that there was no possibility of escape, 
he at first took refuge in silence. But 'finally, when 
he was asked the motive of his crime, he answered, 
“Despair! starvation! and Walrey’s refusal to give 
me work ! ” 

“ Had he no special reason for the act — no wrong 
to avenge ? ” 

“ Yes, he had an essentially strong motive ; but he 
should never disclose it.” 


REMORSE. 


203 


Thereupon Lieven assumed one of his most theatri- 
cal poses, wrapping himself in that martyr-like silence 
which defied even torture to extract one word from 
him. 

He was taken to prison, carrying his head haugh- 
tily, and seemed more gratified than alarmed. This 
man’s greatest pleasure was now, as it had always 
been, to have a rdle to play, and he had one indeed, 
one that began at the assizes, and would terminate in 
the galleys or upon the scaffold. The scaffold is a 
pedestal from which it is possible to hurl a last ana- 
thema at society with the finest possible effect — at 
least this was Rolling-Stone’s reflection. 

He thought too of Manuela, whom he had liberated 
from an odious yoke : her grace, beauty, and soitows 
imparted to his deed a chivalric coloring ; for it is 
more than probable that the prompting of his poverty 
and his hatred of the upper classes would not have 
been sufficient to impel him to the act, but for the 
idea of her wongs and sorrows. “ I lose my life for 
love of her,” he said to himself over and over again. 
In reality nothing could be more false ; but it suited 
Lieven to intoxicate himself with falsehoods up to the 
very last, calling his selfishness by the most elevated 
names — inventing a noble aim for all his least excusa- 
ble actions. 

It was true only that Manuela had unconsciously 
added the last drop to the already brimming cup of 
bitterness, and gave the pretext which for a long time 
he had been waiting for. The unhappy woman real- 
ized this only too fully, and all the remorse which 


204 


REMORSE, 


should have weighed down the hardened soul of the 
criminal tortured her own. 

There was no one at the works ; the forges were 
extinct, the yard was deserted and dark. One faint 
light burned in the office. Manuela wrung her hands 
and murmured in a low voice, “ When I wrote that 
page, I signed his sentence of death.” 

Her maid, who heard these words, thought her 
mistress wandered in delirium. But never had Mme. 
Walrey’s reasoning faculties been clearer. For the 
first time she realized the incalculable consequences, 
the reverberation, as it were, of each of her own acts. 
It was the guilty passion, of which she had declared the 
evening before that she did not repent, that had in- 
spired the lines on that sheet of paper which she now 
called her husband’s death-sentence. 

In the lurid background, away beyond the Amer- 
ican, she saw Maurice like a spectre. It was his fault 
that she passed this hideous night, feeling like a mur- 
deress ; and he knew nothing of what had befallen her. 
He was full of his own pleasures — amusing himself — 
careless and forgetful of her. Mme. Halbronn had 
said this in almost these very words, and she had 
refused to believe it ; but she credited it all now. 
Everything appeared to her in a new light — all, even 
her former life. Good heavens ! she had thought 
herself unhappy— she thought she knew what suffer- 
ing was before this — ^before knowing that intolerable 
weight of remorse — before feeling the horror and con- 
tempt for herself which were now her predominant 
emotions. Of how little importance seemed all her 


REMORSE. 


205 


former regrets and sentiments ! She saw them al- 
most effaced by the terrible stain of that blood which 
flowed so freely, and for which she felt herself so fright- 
fully responsible. This blood, shed by Lieven, she saw 
on her hands, on her garments ; and it seemed to her 
agonized vision that Maurice was her accomplice, and 
she hated him as she hated herself. It was their one 
kiss — that guilty kiss — their mutual repinings at fate 
and fortune, which had armed Lieven and killed Wal- 
rey. She now saw the pitiless sequence of events 
with a clear vision. No, she was not delirious. 


CHAPTER XIX- 

At midnight she heard a light tap at her door. 
Her husband had regained consciousness, and asked 
to see her. Her mother-in-law urged her to lose no 
time in coming. 

“ To the office ? ” she asked. 

‘‘No; to M. Walrey’s own sleeping-room, where 
he had been carried.” 

Manuela passed her burning hand over her fore- 
head, and slowly arose from the bed, whereon she had 
thrown herself completely dressed ; it seemed to her 
that she was about to be confronted with her victim. 
As she passed a mirror she mechanically glanced at 
it ; she saw a woman whom she had never seen be- 
fore — one whom she did not recognize — a Manuela 
who bore no resemblance to Manuela — with haggard 
eyes and features drawn as if by convulsions, and a 


206 


REMORSE. 


face totally devoid of color, with a gray tone to the 
complexion, such as is often seen just before death. 
She shuddered. What terrible scene awaited her in 
that room? The idea came to Manuela to escape 
that and all the woes which must ensue, by throwing 
herself from the window which had been opened for 
air on this August night ; then she was ashamed of 
herself for her cowardice. It was necessary to endure 
to the last. Those condemned to death must gird 
themselves up in this same way, when they feel their 
strength and courage beginning to fail. With a firm, 
quick step, as regular as that of an automaton, she fol- 
lowed her maid, who preceded her bearing a candle. 

Come in,” said some one in a whisper, as she 
reached the door. Manuela stood motionless on the 
threshold. The room was but dimly lighted ; the cur- 
tains were all drawn away from the bed, and her hus- 
band lay with his eyes closed, looking like death itself. 
Dr. Evelin, at the side of the couch, was speaking in 
a very low voice to another physician, who shook his 
head sadly in reply ; and Mme. Walrey, with her 
hands tightly clasped, was looking at them with eyes 
that seemed to say, “ If you cannot save my son, you 
will kill me ! ” 

Manuela glided in like a somnambulist, her white 
drapery falling around her in statuesque folds. The 
soft muslin made but the faintest sound as it swept 
over the floor ; yet Walrey, unconscious as he seemed 
of every other sound, heard it, almost imperceptible 
as it was. He opened his eyes, fixed them upon 
his wife, lifted the hand which he could move, and 


REMORSE. 


207 


made a faint sign that all understood. The two 
physicians, the mother, and the nurse withdrew. Ma- 
nuela stood before him in utter silence, fascinated by 
that look which she never forgot, and in which love, 
sorrow, and anger, combined with a jealousy more 
intolerable by far than the pain of his mortal wound, 
were all to be read. He looked at her questioningly ; 
then, in a faint and almost inaudible voice, he said : 

“ Ah, well ! you are free ! ” 

These words replied only too well to her own 
thoughts ever . since that thrilling cry, “ Murder ! 
Help ! ” had burst upon her ears. Only the evening 
before had she longed for that liberty which to-day 
was forever poisoned to her and was more intolerable 
than the heaviest chains of slavery. 

It was true that she had desired her freedom, and 
this desire was the germ of the homicide. Without 
speaking she fell on her knees, crouching on the floor 
at his side, with her lips pressed to his burning hand. 

“ Forgive me ! ” she murmured at last — “ Forgive 
me ! ” 

Something like a sob was heard from the wounded 
man, as he struggled to answer her. 

“ Pardon,” he said ; “ it is for me to utter that 
word. But I am going away ; you will no longer be 
compelled to endure my presence. The obstacle will 
soon disappear. You are free — the future lies clear 
before you. The future ! You have the future — why 
do you weep ? ” 

He had no idea that each one of these words was a 
dagger thrust through her heart. He continued to speak : 


208 


REMORSE. 


“ Listen. I must tell you, for soon I may not be 
able. First, I ask you not to be afraid of me any 
more. You were afraid of me, and that hurt me 
sorely, my child ; for I loved you — loved you, my 
wife, as you never will be loved again. I dare say 
this to you now, for I am dying.” 

There was a long silence, broken by the labored 
breathing of Walrey and Manuela’s convulsive sobs. 
She had so much to say to him ! She longed to tell 
him that she would give her life to save his ; that she 
wished to make amends for the past ; that she could 
not survive him ; that there was no longer any thought 
in her mind of love or of a future apart from him ; 
that all her hopes, all the beauty of her young life, 
would go down to the grave with him. But an iron 
grasp seemed to encircle her throat, and she could only 
gasp, “Forgive me ! Forgive me ! ” still with her lips 
pressed against that strengthless hand. 

Walrey looked at her with tender astonishment. 
The cause of her despair he could not understand ; 
one single thought, one fixed idea, was alone clear to 
his darkened intelligence. 

“This man — Morton — who loved you before our 
marriage ? ” 

She did not reply ; she in her heart cursed the 
name which haunted her like a nightmare. 

“ Did he not tell you so at the time ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ And he — he only confessed his love to you when 
you were no longer free — when — ” 

“ O my God ! ” she cried, “ say no more. You 


REMORSE. 


209 


alone have been good and true ; you alone hav^ really 
loved me. I ought never to have loved any one but 
you ! ” 

“Love and duty do not always work together,” 
interrupted Walrey, to whom a feverish strength was 
coming by degrees. “ I ought never to have married 
you — never to have loved you ! But it is finished — 
all finished. I only wished to say to you ” — he tried 
to raise himself on his pillow to give more emphasis 
to his words, and fell back with a groan — “ You were 
poor — my widow will be rich. Take care ! — ” 

This was the expiring spark of all that was selfish 
in his nature : he deliberately sought to plant in her a 
germ of distrust and suspicion that should mar the 
felicity which would be planted on the ruin of his 
life. Manuela did not understand — did not really 
hear ; she simply caught that one word “ widow.” 

“Ah! be silent,” she cried. “Silence, do not 
say that ! ” and, again seizing his hand, she pressed it 
against her heart. Her tears were dried as by magic, 
and in passionate tones she exclaimed : 

“ Your widow ! If I live to be your widow, I will 
scrupulously fulfill all those duties so woefully neg- 
lected by your wife. I^^ow listen to me in your turn, 
I beg of you. Wherever you are, in this world or 
another, from this day forth I belong only to you — 
I swear it ! I will bear your name to my very last 
breath. I am yours now — it is late to say so, per- 
haps, but I swear it — I am yours, and yours alone, in 
this world, and in the next.” 

The sad eyes, which only a few minutes before 


210 


REMORSE. 


had expressed such infinite woe, and then such aston- 
ishment, now filled with indescribable rapture. Ex- 
hausted by all this excitement, he was fast sinking 
into his previous state of torpor. He repeated over 
and over again, like a tired, happy child talking him- 
self to sleep, “ Mine ! Mine ! In this world and in the 
next ! ” 

She saw the good she had done, and continued to 
lavish upon him words of tenderness, dictated by the in- 
tense pity she felt, rather than by any other sentiment. 

He understood very little of what she said ; he 
felt' only that she was loving and tender, that every- 
thing was very sweet, and that all the past had been 
swept away like a bad dream, leaving only this great 
love, which had blossomed as by a miracle in his 
last hours, as if to enable him to welcome death, which 
had brought it. 

He fell asleep, and his mother, returning to his 
side, noticed the change in his face — the expression 
of entire contentment. 

“ My poor child ! ” she said to Manuela, who was 
kneeling in tears and prayer, “ I did you great injus- 
tice. I believed you did not love him ! ” 

As she thus confessed what she believed to be her 
injustice, she embraced the young wife, who quivered 
under her compassionate kiss, and did not rise from 
her attitude of a repentant Magdalen. 

After uselessly endeavoring to lift her, Mme. Wal- 
rey knelt by her side. At the sight of the slender, worn 
form, bowed down by that incomparable anguish of a 
mother who sees the solitary fruit of her womb struck 


REMORSE. 


211 


down by death, Manuela realized fully what she had 
done. It was in witnessing this grief, at once so sub- 
missive and so profound, that Manuela had a sudden 
revelation of the nature of the sacrifice she had im- 
posed upon herself, without weighing the full extent 
of her words. The oath of eternal fidelity had sprung 
from her lips almost without any volition of her own ; 
and, when she vowed eternal widowhood, Manuela had 
never asked herself to what she would devote her fu- 
ture years. To God, without doubt ! 

The Catholic Church throws open to crime, to 
weakness, and to despair, secluded asylums, into which 
a heart tumultuously throbbing with unholy passions 
can throw itself to escape from the world, from the 
temptations to which it has yielded, from the perils 
which have assailed it, from the punishment which it 
has deserved, and sleep in peace under the guardian- 
ship of angels. 

Manuela therefore said to herself : I will take 
refuge in a convent. I will allow all my wounds to 
bleed there, in solitude, until death comes to summon 
me.” The poetry of the cloisters appeals to certain 
imaginations ; it embellishes and idealizes the renun- 
ciation of the world, and makes the step an easier 
one. Manuela dwelt upon the idea with a certain 
pleasure. But, kneeling at the side of the poor woman 
whom she had deprived of her son, she realized that 
this expiation would be far too easy and far too 
pleasant. After ceasing to live for herself, she could 
live for others ; she could elevate her grief by devot- 
ing herself to doing good. She would then remain in 


212 


REMORSE. 


that country, the country she so hated, and which she 
had called her prison — the birthplace of her husband. 
She would never forsake that poor mother, who had 
loved more than any one in the world the man whose 
wife had shown such base ingratitude. She would by- 
and-hy take his place, so far as in her lay ; she would 
consecrate her young life to the solace of mournful 
age. Yes, it was duty — plain and rigid duty — void 
of grandeur and of prestige, as it generally is. 

Having arrived at this decision, she grew calmer ; 
and when, a little later, some one repeated to her the 
answer made by Lieven under examination — that for 
his crime he had a secret motive, with which no other 
person was concerned, and which consequently he 
should never confess — she heard the words, which 
so crushingly confirmed her fears and the condemna- 
tion she had already pronounced upon herself, almost 
with indifference. This was because she had already 
affixed the penalty to her act ; and her repentance 
was so profound that the most severe justice of the 
world or of Heaven would have been satisfied. 

Henceforward Manuela’s life was devoted to a 
task of reparation, courageously carried on to the 
very last. Francis Walrey lived three weeks. When- 
ever he unclosed his eyes she was there to greet him 
with a smile of tenderness. He was lulled to sleep 
by the music of an adored voice. He felt the influ- 
ence of the incessant prayers which arose to God for 
him. He was perfectly happy each time that he was 
able to realize all that was going on about him. She 
never left him — she would never leave him. With 


REMORSE. 


213 


that confidence he died with her name upon his lips, 
indifferent to all but herself — even to the presence of 
his mother. How quickly that love which has never 
failed us is eclipsed by that love which has been a 
long time refused and tardily granted ! Is this in- 
gratitude? Mme. Walrey did not so regard it — did 
not seem to suffer from it. She voluntarily retreated to 
the background in those vigils which she herself shared. 

‘‘ Sit here,” she would say to Manuela ; “ he can 
see you better here. It is your face and your voice 
in which he finds consolation.” 

And, that her son might find consolation, the 
mother obliterated herself. She asked for nothing 
more. When all was over, Manuela took the crushed, 
broken-hearted woman in her arms, and said, ‘‘ I will 
be your daughter for evermore ! ” 

Mme. Walrey never ceased to implore the bless- 
ings of God upon her daughter, who in those dark 
days had proved herself to be an angel of light ; and 
when she said, as she did almost daily, that she had 
misunderstood and underrated Manuela’s affection for 
her son, she never knew the agony and shame with 
which the words were heard. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Two years from this time Mme. de Clairac, still 
the same, except that she was a little more dried up 
or mummified, so to speak, astonished at the austerity 


214 


REMORSE. 


of her niece’s widowhood and at the persistence of 
her unbroken seclusion, sat in her salon, expressing 
her astonishment to the circle of hahituh whom she 
still gathered about her. This salon had been the 
stage on which the first scene of a most terrible drama 
had been played — a drama which had shipwrecked 
all Manuela’s happiness — and could have told much 
had it been able to speak. 

‘‘ She was more attached to her husband than we 
supposed,” said the baroness at length. 

“ A most exaggerated character,” replied Mme. de 
Brives. “ Whatever she said, felt, and thought, was 
always in excess. The time will come when we shall 
hear of her doing some strange thing, which will 
astonish every one but myself. It is only grief which 
is silent and moderate that endures.” 

Mme. Halbronn declared frankly that she did not 
know what to think. 

Then the conversation changed, and the circle be- 
gan to discuss an admirable novel, just issued, written 
by Maurice Morton, which was then the rage and last 
excitement. It was a pessimist romance, after the 
style of Nathaniel Hawthorne, that keen analyzer of 
subtile and mysterious causes. In Morton’s book the 
analyzer had for his subject remorse — the innumerable 
shades which it could assume in an impressionable, 
delicate nature, already overshadowed by the aveng- 
ing consequences of a fault of which she had dreamed, 
but not committed — of which she felt herself guilty 
nevertheless, in consequence of a secret longing toward 
it — a longing which she had not crushed at its birth, 


REMORSE. 


215 


but rather cherished instead. The lightning strikes — 
she had not directed it ; the thunder bursts — she had 
not called upon it. But her criminal wishes are real- 
ized. She ought to expiate — she will expiate — she 
will die of this imaginary stain, which to her is so 
real that she sees it, feels it, breathes it perpetually. 

This psychological study was the very evident re- 
sult of the keenest observation of mental agony in all 
its phases. The moral scalpel had been ruthlessly 
employed, and there was withal a strange mixture of 
almost exaggerated sensibility and of fierce animos- 
ity, which induced people to say : 

“ How deeply he feels ! How has he learned all 
this ? How acute must be his powers of observation ! 
Is it not his own heart which he has dissected ? He 
has written with his tears, with the blood from his 
veins.” 

And they were right to a certain degree — to the 
extent that Morton had pitilessly utilized his own im- 
pressions and those of others. It was his right as an 
artist. 

While this conversation was going on in Paris, Dr. 
Evelin and the cure were walking arm-in-arm from 
the Walrey mansion down to the banks of the Sambre. 

“ Our aged friend fades from day to day ! ” said 
the cure. ‘‘ Good soul ! She will not be with us long. 
She will be a great loss to our poor, if her daughter- 
in-law should not be here to continue the good work 
which she has already undertaken. ” 

You do not see very clearly,” answered the doc- 
tor, in a voice that was harsh from restrained emotion. 


216 


REMORSE. 


“ The old trunk has a good deal of sap in it yet, scarred 
and battered as it has been by the tempests of years ; 
and I think her in far better health than the young 
plant. I have said to her daughter-in-law a hundred 
times : ‘Your health demands another climate — differ- 
ent skies. Flanders, with its humidity and its coal- 
dust, its gray skies and cheerlessness, is not suited to 
you. You need the sun — you need the South.’ But 
she, like most women, is very obstinate. It is easier 
to manage a regiment of soldiers than one woman, no 
matter how amiable she may be. And I will wager 
my life that she stays here until consumption carries 
her off ! ” 

The old cure looked earnestly at the physician. It 
had been some time since Manuela, who had learned to 
know him at her husband’s sick and dying bed, had 
surmounted the repugnance which had been originally 
inspired by certain trivial faults in manner, and had 
accorded him her full and entire confidence. He 
walked on in silence, with a strange smile upon his 
lips. 

“ Of what are you thinking ? ” said Dr. Evelin. 

“ I was thinking,” answered the cur6, “ how idle it 
is in matters of self-sacrifice to ask one’s self : ‘ Shall I 
have strength to go on to the end ? ’ Providence in- 
tervenes when we are most doubtful of ourselves and 
of our own endurance — it intervenes and settles the 
question.” 


THE END. 


LBFe 14 


PRICE, 50 CENTS. 


COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS 
No. XIII. 


REMORSE 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 

TH. BENTZON 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 

549 BROADWAY 551 


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COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS 


The design of the “Collection of P'oreign Authors ” is to give selec- 
tions from the better current light literature of France, Germany, and 
other countries of the European Continent, translated by competent 
hands. The series is published in uniform i6mo volumes, at a low 
price, and bound in paper covers and in cloth. 

PAPER. CLOTH. 


I. SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY. A Novel. 

From the French of Victor Cherbuliez - - $0.60 $1.00 

II. GERARD'S MARRIAGE. A Novel. From the 

French of Andre Theuriet .50 .75 

III. SPIRITE. A Fantasy. From the French of Theo- 

PHiLE Gautier .50 .75 

IV. THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT. From the 

French of George Sand . - - - - -S© -75 

V. META HOLDENIS. A Novel. From the P'rench 

of Victor Cherbuliez .50 .75 

VI. ROMANCES OP THE EAST. From the French 

of Comte de Gobineau ------ .60 i.oo 

VII. RENEE AND FRANZ. From the French of 

Gustave Haller ' ' - .50 .75 

VIII. MADAME GOSSELIN. From the French of 

Louis Ulbach .60 i.oo 

IX. THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS. From the 

French of Andre Theuriet - - - - - .50 .75 

X. ARIADNE. From the French of Henry Gre- 

VILLE - - •50-75 

XI. SAFAR-HADGI , or, Russ and Turcoman. From . 

the French of Prince Lubomirski - - - - .60 i.oo- 

XI I. IN^ PARADISE. From the German of Paul 

Heyse. In Two Volumes - - - Per vol., .60 i.oo 

XHI. REMORSE. A Novel. From the French of Th. 

Bentzon *50 .75 


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the portraits of all her characters are skillfully drawn, and the descriptions of Nature 
are exquisite. When shall we see another such a writer? ” — Express. 

“ ‘ Meta Holdenis ’ is altogether admirable, both in itself and as an example of the high 
art of narration .” — Evening Post. 

D. APPLETON CO., Publishers, New York. 

*** Either of the above volumes sent by mail, post-paid, to any address in the United 
Slates or Canada, upon receipt of the price. 







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